


Of an Eastern Persuasion

by Erring_and_umming



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Agent Curt Mega Has ADHD, Angst, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Fluff, Getting Together, I don't promise anything, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, Slurs, Swearing, There will be some giggles later on, These boys do be useless, don't you worry my sweets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29812452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erring_and_umming/pseuds/Erring_and_umming
Summary: The Cold War is ratcheting up, tensions between the Soviet Union and America are beginning to boil over into pseudo-warfare in Eastern Europe and the Middle East.Then the unthinkable occurs in England, a spy ring has been discovered, and they have been siphoning Allied secrets to the Soviets. MI6 does not have all the suspects, leaving the Americans unable to trust their closest allies.Curt bears some of the brunt of this suspicion when he is placed on babysitting duty with the infamous agent, Owen Carvour, the previous mentee of Guy Burgess, one of the members of what is being called The Cambridge Ring.Tensions rise between the two as they both try to prove themselves to their respective agencies.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 19
Kudos: 20





	1. The Leak

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm back after the tiniest of breaks! Writing a long-form piece which I'm attempting to really set in the historical context. I've got this mostly plotted out, which is truly wild because I normally don't plan????
> 
> ANYWAY, get ready for angst, bants and possibly love under fire? (oooo! What a line) 
> 
> This is basically what happened in Berlin. Do you remember that line? I sure as hell do.

**1951**

Curt had been having quite a nice day up to this point. He had spent his morning staring out his spiderwebbed window, watching the pigeons bring fleshy worms to their caterwauling young, preening their feathers and picking fussily at their nest. He had examined the people of H.Q. with a similar eye as they moved around each other with factory-like precision. Secrets passed from hand to hand, governments fell, weapons were traded, and lives were saved all with the flick of a wrist. A paper placed upon a desk. A wink sent just at the right time. A whisper in the correct ear. A shot through the right temple. It all started here, and it left Curt with a swelling feeling in his chest—pride or pain he couldn’t be sure.

But that morning was now ruined. As to be expected.

"The Brits!" Cynthia was pacing, wearing a track into the plush carpet with every passing quick-step across her office. Smoke curled around her in swirling eddies painting her rage-reddened face an ugly shade of grey.

Curt watched her, from a safe distance of course, he leaned up against the doorframe of her near-bare office, with his hands in his pockets. He knew better than to interrupt her passionate ranting. The last agent to interrupt her no longer worked at the office after all.

"Fucking… _gobshites_ ," she hissed, putting out her cigarette with vigour on Susan's neck. Nothing gave away the man's discomfort; the smile was still plastered on his face as if it was carved there from birth. Curt had heard the rumours that the man had his nerve endings burnt off when he took the job as Cynthia's secretary. Many in the office didn't believe it—Curt did.

This was truly the most frazzled Curt had seen his boss. Her usually perfectly manicured hair was a perfectly manicured mess, and veins popped out of her face like particularly unruly worms."Hear what happened, Mega?"

Oh _shit._ She was looking at him. Curt found himself standing up straighter, his face falling into a tight mask of professionalism—a Pavlovian response to Cynthia's bullet of a gaze.

"Ma’am?” he asked, keeping his features neutral.

Cynthia’s eyes were already rolling as she lit another cigarette with a graceful twirl, “Jesus Christ, and you call yourself a spy, Mega?”

“Uh—”

“Don’t answer that. This doesn’t leave this _fucking room._ Right Agent?” Cynthia asked, pinning him with a glare.

“Right.”

“MI6’s got a leak—multiple leaks.”

The air became stiff, the empty spaces buzzed with unsaid words and controlled reactions, but questions burnt at the end of Curt’s tongue. He stared at a dark stain upon the carpet instead, a splash of something brown that wriggled under his watchful gaze.

“Oh.”

“Fucking ‘oh’? Are you joking? Mega, I’m not sure that you’re aware of this, but _we_ are _allied_ with the British!” Cynthia’s face was turning a darker shade of crimson. Curt wondered if she would end up getting dizzy from all that extra blood flow to her skull. “Curt, let me spell this out for you. A _group_ of spies have gone rogue. Three from what we can tell, working together to give information to the _Russian fucks_ who we’re not on brilliant terms with! We’re just lucky it hasn’t gotten out to the public _yet._ ”

“Ah and—”

“And do you know what that means? We’re compromised! Every mission with MI6 in the last decade, _at least,_ must be reviewed, and how are we meant to trust them now? Not that there was _much_ trust to begin with but fuck me _sideways,”_ Curt couldn’t think of anything worse. “we’re going to have to _babysit_ them until they’ve dug up their moles.”

“Baby—”

Cynthia rounded on him, grabbing him by his lapels with hands like talons. “Don’t you fucking interrupt me, Mega or I will throw your lifeless body from this window and make it look like an accident and savour every fucking moment, alright?” Curt didn’t dare move, “Nod if you understand.”

Curt gave her a shaky nod. His hands were already slick at the thought.

“Good. You fucking idiot,” Cynthia released him, leaving his shirt crumpled. He did not go to straighten it; best not to risk it. “Anyway! So now I’m sending you out.”

She threw a file straight at his chest with a thud. Curt managed to catch it without the papers flying from his hands. He opened it tentatively and was met with hard eyes, quaffed hair and a crooked jaw. Curt ran a finger over the man’s face, trying to comprehend the character beyond the image. He flicked through the rest of the papers – reports, missions, successes.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, now you ask the right question?” Cynthia crossed her arms, “That, Mega, is your next assignment. Agent Owen Carvour, MI6.”

“He’s a mole?” 

Cynthia frowned as if she had tasted something awful, her chin curled into a fist as she inspected unseen grit between her fingers. “God, I fucking hope not. The boy’s a virtuoso, been with them for…two years now. However, his mentor’s Guy Burgess, one of the leaks. He needs watching.”

“So, I’m babysitting?”

Cynthia tutted, sitting in her high-backed leather office chair. She looked just as menacing as she obviously wished to. “Be just like home for you, I expect. Pay your way through school, eh?”

Curt held his tongue, letting his frustration simmer on a low heat in his stomach. There was no point allowing himself to unload on Cynthia; she was fireproof and would probably spit venom back at him with twice the firepower.

“I see.”

Cynthia grimaced, “Good, I’ve set up a date for you two.” Curt found himself choking on a bit of spit at the words. He coughed, sucking in some air of the smoky air that did little to quell the searing of his lungs. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Mega. Christ. He’s at Rob’s down the road and expecting your ugly mug.”

Curt stuttered at the door for a moment, his feet seemingly glued to the floor.

“Get out of here! Read and walk, idiot!”

Curt gave her a sharp nod that Cynthia did not return. She was already reading over files that piled above her on the desk in structurally unsound heaps. He sped out with as much speed as was appropriate for the watching eyes that seared into his back. The unfortunate thing about working for a spy agency was that everyone was nosey, but not everyone was subtle. Especially the desk clerks who held onto every piece of gossip as if they held the secrets of the universe in their hot little hands, and unfortunately, in this line of work, they generally did. 

He looked out on the grey cubicles and spotted several ducking heads—he sent each of them their own personalised glare as he made his way through the hallways of A.S.S. H.Q. Headquarters itself was nothing flashy, a practical and pragmatic design of greys and blues that Curt always claimed gave him some form of psycho-somatic clinical depression. Governments never really put much thought into what their buildings were like unless they were customer-facing. A.S.S. tended to be the exact opposite of customer-facing or customer-friendly.

Sometimes he thought that he spent as much time he could out in the field as possible, just to avoid the uncomfortable atmosphere that Headquarters exuded from its every pore. Many discussions about wives, children, soccer, barbeques and dogs, bounced around the rooms, and he always became quickly sick of it. There were only so many soccer games one could hear about before they all sounded the same. 

So, he found himself staring down at the casefile before him, flicking through the pages and ignoring the bustling world around him. Carvour, not much on his personal history, that was to be expected. The man was good, specialising in infiltration and deep cover, with enough languages to run a school on the subject.

The acoustics in the air changed as he walked, the voices echoed, and he found himself on the lower floors of H.Q., his shoes now clicking on the marble, and the wind was biting at him. New York winters were not the most forgiving, but his eyes did not leave the report as he walked to the large rotating doors.

Berlin – fucking East Berlin. It seemed Cynthia was interested in sending him to his death with a man he barely knew. Good to know.

Curt closed the file and met the blustering wind outside with a welcoming smile, snow battered and kissed his cheeks pink as he trotted along the road. He shoved the file in his coat before he let his hands disappear deeply into his pockets, lint already finding its home under his fingernails.

The walk to Rob’s was short, but by the time Curt was greeted by the bell's tinkling and the murmur of happy caffeinated voices, he was already fighting off shivers. It was a warm little place lit by golden light from multiple lamps dotted around the tables. It was a favourite of a few admin staff and a discreet meeting place away from prying eyes. Curt allowed himself a moment to collect himself and shuck his coat, letting the artificial heat seep through his skin with a sigh.

He turned to the room, falling upon every upturned face and downward glance. The familiarity of the act fell over him, chipping away at the anxiety that was chewing away at his chest’s insides.

He was there, Carvour, reading a book in the corner, body turned to the door—back to no one. But the eyes weren’t hard little chips of peat, and the lips weren’t a thin line like Curt had come to expect. Carvour’s eyes scanned the pages in his hand with a small smile, but there was an air of alertness floating around the man – he looked up and caught Curt’s gaze.

Curt felt as if he was moving through golden syrup towards the man. Every step was slow. Every tick upon Carvour’s face fell under his scrutiny. Dark eyebrows raised, dimples burrowing into his cheeks, a glint of malice skimmed along the edge of his smirk. A large hand extended towards him.

His grip was warm, sandpapery, and sure.

Something unfurled in Curt’s chest.

Carvour opened his mouth, “You Americans don’t know how to make a decent coffee, do you?” His accent was…unusual and quite obviously put on to the trained ear. It gave the impression of an Oxford education, lilting and light. But there was a gravel to it that dragged the vowel back down to Suffolk.

Curt smiled tightly, shaking the man’s hand with an equally firm grip. “Ah! Well, I thought you Brits would be more interested in tea.”

Owen hummed as the code was completed. They sat across from one another. “Yes, since you all dumped it in a…river, was it? So now the only option is shite coffee.”

Curt chuckled as he picked up a menu, looking through the pastries that were bound to be disappointing and cold. “Well, you deserved it.”

“I think the Queen would disagree,” Owen said with an easy smile. Curt’s eyes trailed down to the book on the table; it was a copy of _The City and The Pillar,_ creased with use and abused with splashes of tea or coffee.

“Good?” Curt asked, inclining his head towards the book.

Owen looked down at it for a moment, eyes widening slightly. He grasped the book and put in away inside his jacket. He mumbled a quick, “Yes.” And that was that.

It was all forced, strained and searching—a size-up. Curt forced himself to relax under the other man’s gaze. Letting the coils of anxiety wrap around his intestines and squeeze without complaint.

It was awkward. A waitress came over with a smile and pretty pink blush across her cheeks. She poured them coffee, dark and bitter, she left the creamer at the table. Curt didn’t order a thing to eat, just wrapped his hands around the warm white ceramic with a grateful grin. Neither of them gave her a second glance. Curt went about adding his usual two sugar clumps to his coffee, watching as the granules melt into the inky liquid before he added the creamer, letting the white clouds swirl through his coffee, a little snowstorm against the dark sky in his cup. He stirred and the spoon sung against the ceramic sides. He took a sip and sighed as the caffeine burst against his tongue.

Owen added nothing.

Moments passed, people chatted, laughter bubbled and broke through the surface tension, but the two spies didn’t react.

Curt broke, “So, you know why I’m here.”

Owen crossed his arms, revealing an old watch face upon his wrist, scuffed, and sullied by time. “Of course.”

“Good. Well, at least we don’t have to—”

Owen leaned forward, quick with a viper-like intensity and hissed, “I will be quite honest with you, Agent Mega. I do not believe that you, of all people, will be right for this job. I’ve read your file, and it is quite clear to me that I am not the one in need of babysitting.”

Ah, well, that stung a little, but Curt was used to insults. They were, in fact, his bread and butter. All an insult, especially one so cutting and so early, showed was weakness—insecurity. People who throw them across rooms tended to be more concerned about drawing the first blood, knocking you off balance and leaving them open to hide behind false confidence. Curt couldn’t be sure if this confidence that he saw in Owen was false.

“Well, old boy,” Curt began, “good effort.” A vein jumped in Owen’s forehead. “But I think we both know that this isn’t quite my fault. If it makes you feel any better, we can think of this as a partnership.”

Owen stilled, statuesque, with his cup halfway to his lips. He muttered, “I don’t do partners.”

“Then watcher it is.”

Owen nodded, “Yes, spare me the indignity.”

Curt bristled at that. This guy was starting to irritate him, vacillating between cold and enraged—in public of all things. 

“It might be best if we discussed the particulars of our project elsewhere,” said Owen, teeth clenched as if the words pained him. His eyes were cold now—picture perfect—and it left Curt squirmly embarrassed. He was sure the man could see straight through him, to the shit that he buried deep in the depths of himself.

“Sure. Let me just,” Curt downed the coffee, the liquid scalded his mouth, and he caught a disgusted scowl from the Brit. Good. Curt continued as he wiped his mouth, “Let’s go then.”

He stood, paid for his coffee, tipped of course, and strode out of the café with Owen at his heels.

The bell tinkled their exit.


	2. Maxims and Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curt and Owen go over the plans for Berlin and realise that there may be more to this mission than there seems to be...

He didn’t believe in an interventionalist deity. It wasn’t that God didn’t exist; he did—just not in a helpful way. Curt leaned more towards the belief that the guy in the sky was induced into existence, brought forth from the depths of humanity’s collective consciousness to explain the everyday fuckery they were dealing with. Curt hated the bastard in his many forms that existed in broad-reaching strokes across the globe. Reviled him for what it led people to, the way people, ensconced in their own violent natures, were always justified by his mandates that only existed within their minds. Within the world of espionage that he found himself within, God was just a nation—a symbol—in a sea of beliefs that converged upon him, but he stood still, waiting, as the waters crashed into one another, fighting to reach his shores.

But really, he wished God would do something about this fucking Cavour fellow cause he was a real drag.

They walked through the snow, kicking up white powder into the sky with each step. Curt was sure that his nose was slowly cultivating a sharp icicle that threatened to crack upon the pavement at any more. He was more aware of his heart than he should’ve been, slopping away in his chest furiously, taking its job to get blood to his extremities very seriously. Owen did not seem nearly as affected; he was hunkered over like a stone, moving through the wind and the snow as if it were nothing more than a mild inconvenience on a mild day.

_Brits!_

The streets were near-to-void, bright white and awful upon squinting eyes. The few people on the sidewalks moved like flies in honey—slow—until they came close to the sides, nearly out of danger under the eaves of the surrounding building, and they became fizzing creatures, limbs nearly blurring in their hurry to leave the streets. He knew there was some folklorist out there who would tell of the beauty of winter’s hand upon the city, its body laid across rooftops like a quilted blanket. But whoever said that was a bastard and probably only stayed for a holiday at most, undoubtedly some twit from the southern hemisphere. 

The safehouse wasn’t far off; however, Curt took extra precautions, walking down wrong streets, stopping to buy a loaf of warm bread that he nearly shoved his hands into to prevent what he believed to be an inevitable case of frostbite.

“We getting anywhere soon, Mega?” Owen asked from behind a woollen scarf brought up to cover half his face. It was a colourful little number of teals and greens with interlocking, zigzagging threads—poorly woven but beautiful in the way in struck itself against the darkness of Owen’s clothes and the irovy surroundings. “Mega? Are you going to reply or gape at me like some gormless twat?”

Curt dragged his eyes away from the scarf, luckily his cheeks were already tinged from the snow, but anxiety snapped an elastic band around his ribs. _Fuck._ “Yeah, sorry, we’re close. A couple more minutes, and we’ll be there.”

Owen just nodded once and kept trudging, his boots crunching in the slush.

God strike him down—the Brit was a drama queen as well.

They sped through the rest of the snow; as the safehouse came into view, Curt tapped Owen’s arm and pointed to the sleek building that was nestled within the snow.

“Subtle,” Owen muttered, his voice caught and thrown away by the wind before Curt’s ears could catch the venom in his voice.

They walked up the stairs and into the small apartment building's lobby, knocking snow off their shoes in clumps onto the lino floors. Curt was blowing onto his hands with his barely hot breath as they walked towards the stairs in silence.

Trekking up the stairs warmed him slightly, and Curt shucked his heavy jacket, folding it over his arm as they walked. Curt was sure that his fingers were dancing a nervous jive at his side. He brought them forward, away from the British agent's view as they reached to door to the apartment.

“Here we are,” Curt said as he unlocked and opened the door with little fanfare, allowing Carvour to pass him in a cloud of oud and bergamot that tickled at his nose. Of course, he wore expensive cologne—typical compensation.

The apartment itself was nothing special. None of them were, except for one that Curt had stayed in a while in Guatemala. But that was only special due to the spine curling, stomach-turning smell—the source of which he never discovered.

Owen entered the space, eyes tracking along the walls, assessing with only his eyes, hand tucked into his jacket—obviously fingering at his gun. Curt noted this down in his _Owen List_ that he was bound to need to start keeping. The man was neurotic.

**OWEN LIST:**

  1. **Takes coffee black**
  2. **Insecure about his position within his agency (understandably)**
  3. **Overly suspicious (also understandable, if slightly annoying)**
  4. **Reads (admittedly, many people do this, but it’s good to know. What does he read? Needs further analysis)**



“You’re not going to find anyone,” Curt called after him as the man disappeared down the hallway to bedrooms, moving with predatory precision. “It was swept only an hour ago.”

Owen didn’t reply for a moment; Curt could hear the clatter of doors being opened and closed, the slide of what he could only guess to be the bathroom mirror and— _rrrriiiippp._

“Oi! What are you doing?!” Curt rushed through the hallway, pinballing off the walls as he came into the master bedroom and was met with the strange sight of Owen, bent at the knees with a small piece of wallpaper in one hand and a minute mechanical object in the other. 

Owen tossed it, flipping end over end, and it landed perfectly in his hands. A little motorised ear just for them. How sweet.

“Swept sure, and bugged,” Owen said with a smug little smirk across the pale planes of his hands.

“Eh, this is one of ours,” Curt said, turning the little chip over in his fingers and noticing the three dots that winked up at him upon the metallic bottom.

“So, you just…don’t care?”

Curt scowled; a headache was beginning to thrum above his left eyes in stinging waves. “Do you?” he asked, accusations barbed the words that he threw across the room along with the chip that sailed into Owen’s hands. “You’re going to have to re-glue that. Let me see if we have any around here.”

Turning away from Owen’s stunned face, Curt rushed towards the kitchen. He stalked off and tore through the draws, looking for the classic junk draw. It wasn’t the third draw, and Curt was certain that was a national travesty. But eventually, he found it—the fourth draw. He would have to have words with whoever kitted this house out because they were obviously a heathen. Grabbing some superglue with what looked like a stuck-on lid if the semi-transparent globule was anything to go by, Curt turned back to his child—i.e. Owen Carvour. Battering down upon his annoyance, he returned to the bedroom, noting that Carvour hadn’t moved an inch.

“Here you go, old boy,” Curt said, handing Owen the small tube of glue.

“You really don’t care?”

“I really don’t,” Curt said, surety settled across his shoulder, unfurling like a cloak, he trusted the agency.

“But they could hear you sleep, what you do…” Owen trailed off, watching the snow patter against the window like the tiny feet of dancers, moving across the glass in a waltz without rhyme or reason. Curt followed his gaze, fighting against the chokehold those words had put him in. He was always conscientious about what he did in safe houses. 

Any unnecessary affection or care was always taken poorly in these situations of strain from Curt’s experience with the few partners he had had in the past. So, he rocked on his heels, thinking vaguely of his mother, who did the same thing whenever she lied. “Well then, don’t be calling out any names in your sleep, eh? Come on, we can fix this later. We’ve got to go over the file, start to…plan, I suppose. You know where we’re going, right?”

Owen gave a stiff nod and stood up robotically, eyes still trained on the window, glued to the flurries that skated through the sky. Curt tapped his arm, and Owen came back down to earth, zeroing in on Curt with laser-like intensity.

“Makes me wonder if A.S.S. wants me gone when they send me on missions like this,” Curt muttered as he led Carvour back into the lounge with a hovering guiding hand.

“You’ve done missions like this before?”

Curt stiffened, “Once. It was…horrible, I suppose. You?”

“Hmm, yes, similarly, it did not go well.”

“They never do,” Curt sighed as he sat on the couch, pulling the file out and placing it upon the table. Instead of sitting on the couch with him, Owen sat upon the floor with crossed legs, arms planted on either side of him as if he were an eager youngster in class. Curt wondered what the man had been like as a child—probably a little shit.

“Look…I—I understand why you are here, and I…must admit I acted harshly before at the café. I was only told this morning about…”

“The leak?”

Owen nodded, his hands curled into two bloodless fists.

“Ah well then, I can’t hold it against you.”

Owen muttered, “Thank you.”

Curt took pity on him. “Now…what’s the plan?”

Owen smoothed out at that, familiar territory allowed the two of them to ignore the shaky terrain they had just stepped on.

“Well, MI6 has given us two plane tickets into Poland, as it will be impossible to get into East Germany—well, you know. Anyway, we have an agent stationed in Slubice that will hopefully…wait, do you know Polish?”

“Of course. I actually spent a bit of time there once a couple of years ago,” Curt said, thumbing through the file.

Owen raised an eyebrow but did not indulge in pressing Curt for details, which the American found himself thankful for. “Right, so the contact should be able to get us through the checkpoint and then we’ll have to make our way to Berlin from Frankfurt, which should take a day if we don’t run into any complications. But it will be safer than attempting a crossing from the West to the East.”

**OWEN LIST:**

  1. **Knows what a boundary is.**
  2. **The guy has plans up his sleeves and probably his pant legs too.**



Curt felt the words seep out of his ears and splatter onto the floor as the plans wafted around his head in dizzying spirals. It’s not that he wasn’t trying to concentrate, but long and drawn out debriefs left his head full of buzzing wasps made of cotton, and some unseen force beyond his control extracted the memories of the event. He found himself running his fingers along the rough canvas of the couch, staring at the tight weave of the fabric and pulling at the loose threads.

“Mega! Are you listening?” Owen was staring at him, his crooked jaw locked in what Curt could only describe as unmitigated frustration.

_Fucking excellent._

“Yes, sorry, sorry I was just—”

Owen rolled his eyes and pushed the notepad towards Curt (When did he get that?). His neat script crawled around the page in tight whirls. Curt now noticed the file had been pulled apart, each page fanning around the man in paper wings upon the ground.

“Here just…I took notes. But Mega, I need you to realise that this isn’t…we can’t cock this one up, alright?” Owen pinned him to the couch with the intensity of his gaze that sent heat through Curt’s body—shame—he knew it distantly but snuffed it out. Instead, he let his eyes settle on the wings made of state secrets.

“I know, Carvour sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine.”

“Right…um, what’s all this? Looks like you found your own file.” Curt glanced at Owen’s file discarded in a messy heap in the corner of the room.

Owen’s features immediately brightened, the first time he had seen a genuine smile upon the other spy’s face. Despite the darkness of the day and the general atmosphere, it seemed to light the room a little more, removing some of the buzzing tension between them.

“This!” Owen gestured grandly, “Is my work, Mega. It’s how I plan, having it all—” He cut himself off as he ran his hands through the air, tracing the wings, “Here! And just around me, it helps me to process. Keeps the mind sharp.” Owen tapped his temple, and Curt was slightly concerned for the man’s sanity—it seemed to him that the files had been thrown around by wild opossums and then drawn on by cool-aid-fuelled children. “And then it all goes…” Owen swooped over and tapped the writing pad, “Here. In nice little notes. But yes, I did find my file, better than I thought it would be. I imagined you yanks wouldn’t be ones for notetaking. You missed a few things here and there, but yes, mostly in order indeed. I put it over there. It wasn’t relevant to…this.”

“Right.”

“It’s standard practice.”

Curt knew standard practice, and this truly was not it. This was un-standard practice. Was it even practice?

**OWEN LIST:**

  1. **Slightly, if not entirely unhinged but hides it behind being a British twot.**



“So read up,” Owen said as he pulled himself up, “And I‘ll go deal with gluing the bug back.”

Curt felt his stomach drop out onto the floor and flap about uselessly for a moment as he stuttered, “I can’t…I can’t let you do it without—”

“Ah. Really?”

“Unfortunately not,” Curt said with a shrug. He could only imagine the chewing out he would get from Cynthia, but it did nothing to help the fact that Owen was shooting him a crumpled frown.

“I would never betray my country,” he murmured lowly, each word enunciated as if they were made of a warped, cutting steal.

Curt stayed silent, letting it speak for itself. Tautness wracked through Owen’s body and, like a spring, turned too tight—the metal was bound to break.

“You’re an arse, Mega!” he hissed. Carvour took out the battered book he was reading from the café and sat in the opposite corner of the room, folding in on himself like a bad set of billows. “Read that and let me know when you’re done so you can _supervise_!”

Curt nodded, keeping himself chained to some form of calm held deep within. He didn’t know how Carvour felt; he had never had the misfortune. He could see it stung something terrible.

He got to reading. Luckily, Carvour’s handwriting was simple and detailed the plan with a practised ease that Curt could really only wish for. Curt listened to the wind howl its opera outside as he made himself familiar with the notes. They were to infiltrate some shit-eating-rich-faff of a gala as two well-connected businessmen in East Berlin, to stop or prevent an exchange of vital MI6 information pertaining to Theo Huess. His tenuous rule had strengthened Western German’s international ties and prosperity over the last two years. Further, they suspected plans of the Bundeshaus—which was acting as a form of parliament house in West Berlin—were to pass from hand-to-hand at the gala. This would be hopefully an easy enough directive. However, the nature of these plans had not been uncovered. The thought made Curt’s stomach flip, while he was one for improvisation, the idea of flying in blind regarding marks and the nature of their quarry left stones knocking against one another in his body.

“Christ,” he whispered to himself as he kneeled upon the floor, corroborating Owen’s notes with the more detailed pieces of information within the file. There wasn’t much. A suspected free agent working for a larger unknown organisation—motive: unknown and firepower: unknown.

“Indeed,” Owen muttered from across the room, “But it’s all they have from and therefore…all we have.”

“Let’s just—fuck let’s just go glue that chip back. I need a drink.”

“You don’t really need me to do it.”

Curt rounded on him; Owen didn’t look up, with his book on his knees and far too close to his face. Curt stopped short, “Do you need glasses?”

“What?”

“I said, do you need glasses?”

Owen scoffed and tucked the book away, huffing, “Of course not. Come on, let’s go fix that bloody wall, I suppose.”

“Right.”

The two easily fixed the wall between them, only leaving a hairline split in the wallpaper; Owen inspected the discrepancy, running his finger along the wall with a tiny frown that stitched his eyebrows together in a messy patch of wrinkles. 

“I hate this.”

“I know—”

Owen sighed, “No, I mean…I know what you mean, and I dislike you being here, but I don’t hate it. Human sounding boards can be useful. I mean this,” he pointed at the wall as if the subtle floral pattern had personally offended him in some manner. Curt thought, according to the face Owen was pulling, it must have slept with his girlfriend. “I mean, look at it!” Owen whinged.

“I can’t see anything.”

Owen rubbed his temple, “There’s…you can tell—I can tell.”

“You’re the one who ripped it out.”

Owen paused, looking at the near-invisible tear. “I guess so.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

Curt smiled a little at that, “Pulling that face. The wind’ll change, and you’ll get stuck like that.”

Owen scoffed, but his frown disappeared, “What are you, my mother?”

“Eh! You wish Carvour. Come on, I’m drinking. You want anything?”

“Suppose.” 

It was as close to a sorry as Curt thought he would get with Carvour tonight, so he took it with a smirk and left the room. A little sign of trust for the British agent, besides if he decided to destroy the bug, Cynthia would be on the phone in a second, spitting God knows what filth through the receiver.

“G&T, dear,” Owen called through the hallway, the words latched at Curt’s ankle, causing him to stumble.

_Dear?_

He rushed into the kitchen and out of sight.

_Christ._

He flew through the drink making, liquid slopping across the counter in his haste. One thing that many of the movies got right was a spy’s access to alcohol, the agencies normally acknowledged the need for a coping mechanism, but they would obviously deny it if ever asked directly.

Right as he was bringing the drinks over to the couch, Owen drifted back into the room.

“Is that lime?” he asked, looking at the glass of G&T in Curt’s hand.

“Err, yup. It is. I did the sides of the glass and everything. Why? Do you want lemon?”

“No, no lime is perfect. Thank you,” Owen said, taking the drink from Curt’s hands; the two sat once again in the lounge.

“My mum likes those,” the words flew from his mouth unbidden before he could clamp down on his tongue with his teeth.

Owen’s eyes widened some, and he laughed, a warm and hearty thing. He said, “Well then, I shall know what to ply her with when I seduce her.” He took a sip of the clear liquid.

Curt stuttered to a stop in shock before a smile curled across his face. “You better leave my mum out of this, you dog!” He giggled, downing half of the whiskey in his hand, letting the amber liquid burn away at the brick of anxiety that sat in his chest.

“How could I? She must be a beauty,” Owen leered, leaning back on the couch with a relaxed air as if he were taking court. Curt realised as if struck that the man was handsome. If you removed the whole arrogant, slightly resentful prick aspect, he would have erred on this side of calling him attractive.

“And how do you suppose that? Oh mighty Owen of MI6,” Curt asked, drowning the thoughts about his ‘partner’ with another swig.

“Finally! My proper title. Eh, well, you’re an attractive fellow Mega. She’s got to be stunning,” Owen gave what only could be described as a chef’s kissing, ignoring Curt’s heated cheeks for the glass in front of him.

On the other hand, Curt was sure he was burning up at the other man’s words—maybe he would turn to ash and be spared the shameful feeling that bloomed in his chest at the thought of the other man finding him attractive. He muttered, “That’s disgusting, Carvour. Just…that’s my mum, man.”

Owen straightened up at that, a curtain of professionalism falling across him, “Sorry old chap. I didn’t mean to offend; you know the boys at MI6 are always…well, that’s just the way I suppose. But I won’t do it again, eh? Come on, how I make the next drinks, and we can regale each other with battle stories?” 

“Oh, alright.”

“That’s the ticket.”

The night passed after that easily, neither of them getting too drunk to delve into any career-ending secrets, but the booze allowed a warmer feeling to pass between the two of them, time passing in pink-tinged swirls. Owen, it turned out, was much like Curt back at his agency—he didn’t like the people, for all their discussions of domesticity left him wishing for the field.

They spoke of worst places they had been; Curt won that with his story of Guatemala and favourite foods, Curt finally accepted that the British must have poorly evolved taste buds because mushy peas sounded like they should be some kind of culinary crime, and then—

“So let me get this straight, Cynthia—you know I met her once actually—she told on you…to your mother?”

“She did.”

“So your mother knows…about what you do?” Owen was hunched forward, hanging off every one of Curt’s words, eyes blown wide but hazy with the liquor flowing through his system. Curt watched him bemused, and you would never catch him admitting that he enjoyed the attention.

“I mean, of course,” Curt said, finishing his glass and putting it on the table with a clink, “My ma tore me a new one and all right there in the kitchen. It was…humiliating.” Curt looked over at the other spy, drinking in the more relaxed version of the stony man he had met this morning.

“I’m sure it was. But did you deserve it?”

Curt thought for a moment, pride was always one of his more significant pitfalls, and so he swallowed its sickly taste that called for him to deny it and said, “I did. It was one of my first missions, and I was an idiot. Does, er, does your mother know? About what you do, I mean?”

“No, she, ah, she died…you know _boom_ the—the Blitz,” Owen muttered, sculling the rest of his drink with a grimace.

“Oh…” Curt mentally slapped himself, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

"Eh, it was a while ago and…”

“Yeah, I understand…” Curt sunk in his seat; the weight of the conversation left him feeling exhausted.

“Well…we’ve got a plane tomorrow. I think it’s best if we get some sleep.” Owen said as he stood, swaying on his legs as if he were at sea, “I can take the floor. I’ll go get us some pillows,” He slapped Curt shoulder and walked towards the hallway.

Curt stumbled a moment, “What?”

“The floor I’ll take—”

“No, I heard you. There are two perfectly good bedrooms, just down the hall.”

“Yes…but we can’t sleep in there. If someone comes in, and we’re separated, we're, ah,” Owen stifled a yawn, “a liability to one another.”

Curt thought for a moment, he hadn’t worked with a partner in a while and the thought process made sense.

“Well, do we have to sleep in the lounge? We could take one of the bedrooms.”

“I—ah yes, we could do that,” Owen muttered, his gaze averted towards the bedrooms, “Would you…do you want to do that?”

“I definitely would rather it, Carvour. Then at least one of us will get a good night’s sleep. Christ, look at your face, don’t worry, alright. It’s just sleeping; the bugs aren’t going to…I don’t know, see-through walls!” Curt rolled his eyes a stood. The world wavered slightly as he heaved himself towards the door, hoping that the English agent would follow him.

They got ready for bed in a whirlwind, neither daring to speak as they came into the master bedroom. Owen’s eyes found the tear immediately.

“Stop looking at it, Jesus Christ,” Curt said as he got into the bed, the goose feather embrace doing wonders for his aching body – hunching over files for hours really did leave one stiff.

Owen took a pillow and a blanket and hunkered down on the floor. Curt looked over the edge at the man, his eyes already closed, arms folded over themselves like a death mask. _God, this guy was dramatic._

“Come up here,” Curt said, pulling the blanket back, thankful for the slight haze of alcohol that allowed him to extend this small branch of kindness.

Owen’s eyes shot open, “What?”

“I said, come up here, you idiot.”

“But I—”

Curt sighed, “We’re going to be in Poland tomorrow, and if you insist on sleeping in the same room, then I insist that we both get a good sleep. You’re taking point on this anyway; if it makes you uncomfortable, then I can take the floor,” Curt was rambling now, and Jesus Christ, nothing was going to get him to stop. “But I think it’s best if we—”

“Okay,” Owen said, his voice barely above a whisper; with the slide and shushing of blankets, they were lying in bed together, stiff as boards and eyes upon the ceiling.

Curt swallowed. “Right, goodnight then, and if you murder me in my sleep, I'll kill you,” he reached over and turned off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Goodnight,” Owen said with a breathy laugh, and Curt felt him shift, turning away from him as they settled in to sleep. The warmth radiated off the other man’s body, their mutual body heat shielding them from the cool breath of the night around them.

Moments passed, but Curt couldn’t get his body to relax, he counted backwards from one hundred, and sheep seemed to be a far off fantasy.

He listened to the night around him, the tapping of sleet against the window, the happy laughter of a party down the street that had extended far into the night, but he found himself tuning in to the huff of Owen’s breaths, deep and slow. He was asleep, his body in the rhythms of unconsciousness. As he listened to the other man’s breathing, Curt found himself slipping into sleep’s embrace and joining his partner.

When he awoke, Curt added something else to his list.

**OWEN LIST:**

  1. **Sleep hugger.**



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the line "Curt turned from Owen's stunned face" or whatever it is. Autocorrect kept trying to tell me it was "stunning face" and I was like. Well, there ain't no word of a lie...I suppose. 
> 
> This chap has a bit more plot but the next is where we're really going to sink our teeth in! Action! Drama! etc. 
> 
> Let me know where you think this is going in the comments! Anything you want to see that I can throw in!? Who knows!


	3. Poland Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are heading to Poland, the mission weighs heavily on them both as they try to set about creating a good working relationship. 
> 
> But things are about to get...rocky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, shit on a biscuit! Is this the longest chapter yet? 
> 
> Yes. 
> 
> Do I know how that happened? 
> 
> No.

* * *

Bleary.

That’s how he always felt when he woke up—never ready for the day—knowing that the sun was peaking over the horizon, staring down on the city and he wished it would just leave him be to sleep. That it would just go about its business somewhere else or that it would hide under its covers of the hills and sea, and he could go under his until he was ready to be awake.

But this was not a typical day.

He was pinned, warm, and breath tickled at the back of his neck, gliding across his skin and tip tapping down his spine. This day was a day to delicately remove himself instead of groaning awake. To slide across the bed with quiet limbs instead of stomping across the room in a huff, and he dared not look at his partner’s sleeping form—too vulnerable. An aberration brought about by the innocent façade that was sleep. He was just cautious.

All of this was going smoothly, beautifully, splendidly, superbly, as you would expect from one of the world’s up and coming greatest spies. A man of the shadows, a gentleman of stealth, a—

“Mornin’,” a sleep roughed voice murmured from the pillows.

Curt turned on his heel with a sluggish groan, expecting to see a sleep rumpled Carvour, but all he was treated to was a messy lump of brown hair in a sea of white sheets that the man had managed to twist around himself entirely in the short time that Curt had vacated the bed.

“Good morning,” Curt whispered, voice strangled as he stood frozen between the door and the bed, unable to move towards either.

“Didn’t murder you by the looks of it,” Carvour said, still under the blankets, face smushed into the pillows, and eyelids still firmly closed, despite the winter’s clouded light striking him across the face, leaving the shadows to settle in the divots of his eye sockets and temples.

Curt gave a show, checking himself for injuries thoroughly, before saying, “Well, looks like you didn’t. Good job, Carvour.”

“The temptation was there.”

“I’m sure it was. Sleep alright?”

“Much better than I thought I would. You do snore, though,” Owen muttered, throwing his arm over his eyes to shade himself from the sun’s gaze.

**OWEN LIST:**

**9\. Also, not a morning person.**

“I do not!”

“You do! Rattled the rafters it did,” Owen paused; he uncovered his eyes and finally looked at Curt with sleep-misted eyes that blinked with a wonton wish for more moments of dozing. “But really…thank you for letting me sleep in the bed. I can be a bit of a grinch in the morning if I don’t get enough sleep.”

“That’s no stretch of the imagination,” Curt snarked back with a smile.

“Although it’s really proven that are you an entire idiot,” Owen said, as his joints clicked from his excessive stretching. Curt blocked his ears.

“Stop that. It’s gross,” Owen smirked a little at that, “But also! Rude. Very rude, Carvour. Why am I the idiot in this situation?”

Owen shrugged, “Well, I could’ve killed you.”

“But you didn’t!”

“Only because I popped some sleeping pills,” Owen snorted, “Besides aren’t you watching me to make sure I’m not some kind of commie?”

“Eh, I don’t believe it.”

“You’re just— wait, you don’t believe it? Then what was all that faffing about yesterday with the bug?”

“Cynthia,” Curt said, with his arms crossed in a challenge. 

“Cynthia?”

“My bos—”

“I know she’s your boss, Mega.” Owen pulled himself from bed with another pop of his back and his curled in on himself, his nose to his knees in some terrible facsimile of yoga.

Curt let his eyes drift to a fascinating bit of water damage that had affixed itself to the roof in a shapeless blob. “So, can I got brush my teeth now…or?”

“But why—”

“I trust you, but I’m sure Cynthia would kill me if I let you break the bug. I was just…”

“Protecting me?”

Curt fiddled with his shirt in his hand for a moment; thoughts came unbidden, reaching for that old fear and the twisted faces of disgust that always flashed behind every look that lingered a moment too long. He settled for a quick bob of his head. 

“Right. Well, you trust too easily that much’s for certain. You’re meant to be a spy,” Owen said, shooting up from his origami-like position. He strode towards a small day bag by the cupboard and pulled out a few pieces of clothing, not dissimilar to the ones he wore the day before.

“Eh, I’ve got a good intuition,” Curt sighed, allowing the strain to leave his muscles.

“Can’t be that good.”

“So, you didn’t read my file?”

“Oh, I did, but according to that response, they should have just written ‘cocky’ in bright red block letters.”

“Shove off, Carvour,” all the venom was sucked from the words by the smile plastered quite unwillingly across his face.

“Shoving off now,” Owen muttered and walked straight into the bathroom, shutting the door with a slam.

“Hey! I was going to use that!”

“Well, then be useful and go put on some coffee instead!” Owen hollered back through the door, the howl of the taps already screeching through the apartment, “Shit! That’s chilly!”

Curt sighed and left the room to the pokey kitchen. He may as well put on the coffee and spare himself any more exposure of Agent Carvour. The man was blasé; however, Curt knew what lay beneath that masked face full of smiles and wit. It was the same for most spies—fear. But Curt would not allow himself to delve any further than that. The Brit deserved better than Curt swanning about his personal life as if he had lived, colonised and settled there. He wasn’t British after all—colonising was more their thing.

Intuition was his, and it was only good for a few things, which normally pertained to understanding criminals rather than understanding a spy’s deep-seated traumas. That was none of his business.

But coffee was at this moment, and he made short work of it. Burning the beans, overfilling the percolator, leaving the grind floating in its own juices, spilling half the dark liquid on the floor, and leaving the kitchen looking like some awful Rorschach test.

Curt sighed. He really should have gone and had a shower first.

“What in the hell happened in here?”

Curt whirled around, percolator in hand and eyes wild. Owen stood in the doorway, a bemused smile crinkling his lips as he took in the scene.

“One of America’s greatest up-and-coming spies, my arse,” Owen chortled as he looked at the stain upon the ground.

“Who told you that?” Curt asked, avoiding the look of Carvour’s freshly tousled hair, still damp from the shower.

“What?”

Curt exhaled in one frustrated breath, “I’m—er, definitely not there yet. I’d like to be, obviously, one day, but…eh. I’m getting there. Coffee?”

“Modesty? Wouldn’t have pegged you, Mega and God no! I can only imagine that stuff will cause me to keel over, and then you’ll have to do this mission on your own and surely die a horribly painful death in the process.”

“Gee, thanks,” Curt muttered.

“Come on, I’ll teach you how to do it if you want?”

“Sure,” Curt shoved the silver percolator into Owen’s hands, making sure to release the dastardly thing as quickly as possible, nearly dropping it in the process.

“Right so,” Owen got out a set of matches and with a skilled hand lit the stove, watching the flames dance merrily for a moment he continued, “you don’t fill it too much, just up to this line here,” he pointed to a slight indentation in the inside of the canister, “and then you put this little gizmo on top which acts like a filter. You fill it with coffee. I like to tamp it down, so the coffee’s a wee bit stronger, but you don’t really have to. Then hey presto, you put that top on, and you’re all finished.” Owen put the percolator on the heat with a smile, “Not too hard, eh Mega?”

It was all condescension. Of course. It dripped from Owen’s tongue as he spoke and moved around the kitchen as if he was meant to be there, towering over Curt and his eyes sparkling with vitriol.

“Doesn’t look too hard, no,” Curt muttered, watching as the percolator began to sing over the rising heat of the flame.

“I read it in your file.”

“What?”

“The ‘greatest up and coming’ crap. It was in your file.”

“Oh…who wrote it?”

Carvour leaned against the bench, hands coming to his sides with a shrug. “Eh, I don’t know. Some MI6 drone, I imagine. Too much time of her hands. They do like to gush when they really get going,” Owen said with a wink.

Curt’s chest tightened; the way he spoke about women left an acidic taste in his mouth. Curt knew that if he did that around any of the women he knew he’d have his tongue cut out and fed to him. Maybe not by Barb; she was too sweet for her own good, really. She could do with cutting out a few tongues the way people spoke about her back at the office.

“Do you have to—”

The percolator screamed, and the two men jumped, back watching the steam pour from the appliance’s mouth in billowing clouds.

“Well, take it off the heat, Mega,” Owen ordered with a shooing motion.

Curt grabbed the warm handle and took it off the flame; turning off the stove, he pulled out two chipped mugs from the even more chipped cupboard and set about filling them with coffee.

The two sat down at the small circular table near the kitchen. Curt wrapped his hands around his coffee and took a sip; Owen watched him with a raised eyebrow.

“No creamer,” Curt muttered.

“Ah. Sugar?”

Curt shook his head, and they fell into silence, only punctuated by the sipping of coffee and the shifting of weight upon the chairs. Obviously, neither of them would handle breakfast the morning, mission nerves already filling up their stomachs and biting at their insides.

“So…got a girl?”

Curt stilled. “What?”

“Well, by the face you just pulled, I assume yes, many single men would’ve— you know…piled on,” Owen watched him over the rim of the coffee mug as if inspected a piece at a museum. The look left Curt stifling a shiver.

“Ah, no, no. No girlfriend. Well, I have girls that are friends, but we’re not, ah, we’re not dating or anything.” Curt thumbed at the handle of the coffee cup, staring into the bitter depths of the coffee, hoping that it would drown him if only to avoid the other man’s eyes.

“Fair enough.”

There was a pause, a little void that Curt knew he was expected to fill. “Do you? I mean, do you have a girl?”

Owen sighed and put down his drink, “I did, but we broke it off recently. She couldn’t really deal with the whole ‘travelling for work’ thing, and I didn’t want to quit, so…” Owen shrugged, “What you going to do?”

“Well, that sucks,” Curt sympathised.

“Eh, not really. I don’t really mind.”

Curt wrinkled his nose at that; this guy really needed to just—

“Not like that, Jesus Christ. I just…knew we weren’t, right? Okay. You really…you really know how to get into people’s heads, don’t you? Got me opening up like some kind of shrink.”

“So, you did read my file!”

Owen grinned with an acerbic roll of his eyes, and he drained his cup.

“Right, come on, drink up and get dressed, you layabout. We’ve got a plane to catch in two hours, and I am not going to be late.”

“Righto, Jesus Christ Carvour, you’re a slave driver.” 

Curt felt the coffee lodge itself in his throat, and he fought to keep it down, the bitter taste leaving his stomach rolling. But he managed to fend off the feeling as he stood and headed for the shower.

* * *

Airports were shit. There was no way around it. They smelled like sweat from the gritty underarm of a man who lived in his mother’s basement and bleach—don’t forget the bleach. Curt despised airports but hated them more when he was forced to watch his partner trot around happily, a cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke cheerfully to TSA as if it were all quite commonplace.

“Cheer up, you old sod! We’re getting on a plane!” Owen said, dragging him towards the gate lounge. It was how Curt imaged Purgatory: grey-on-grey; weakly strident sunshine glaring through high windows that floated off into space; and far too many people filled with a close-to-immoral sense of self-importance—their voices rabbling together to create a din of complaints.

“Not getting any wiser by the day, Carvour; I hate flying.”

Owen paused at that, looking over his newspaper with a raised eyebrow, “You hate flying, and so you chose a job that sends you all across the world with barely a days’ notice?”

“Yes.”

Owen grinned at that, “I think I’m coming to the realisation Mega that I’m never going to understand you.”

“And let’s keep it that way,” Curt grouched, sipping on his second cup of coffee for the day, letting the jitters fall across his body in humming waves—maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

The two slipped into the waters of silence. However, even Curt could admit this one was more comfortable. The din of the crowd ate at the quiet anyway, yet it did not stop the scratching of Owen’s pen against the page. Curt watched him, tongue poked out in concentration as he muttered under his breath, wholly engrossed within the grey pages.

Curt looked around. There was really nothing to do.

“What are you doing?”

Owen looked up again, pencil just millimetres from the page; he said with a put-on groan, “I was wondering when you would ask.”

“Right, so go on then,” Curt encouraged.

Owen turned the paper around; the crackle of the pages revealed a curious sight. The funnies page – but all the jokes were scribbled out with vigour and replaced with Owen’s tiny, fine script.

“I re-write the funnies.”

“You re-write the funnies?”

“I did say just say that, Mega.”

“Do you write better jokes?”

“I wouldn’t say better.”

Curt leaned forward, squinting to read the crowded scrawl that took up the speech bubbles' last breathing space. The cartoon was the latest Bugs Bunny, floppy ears all over the shops, but every ‘What’s up, Doc?’ was replaced with a ‘What’s the verdict, Doc?’ and Bugs was looking progressively more emaciated every time he faced down Elmer Fudd, his cheeks concaved, and his body was made weaker by the addition of Carvour’s graphite.

Curt snorted, “Jesus, that’s dark.”

A bell rang through the space, and the rabble of the crowd subsided as an airy voice rung out, “Boarding for flight AA138 to Warsaw has now begun. We invite first and business to begin boarding.”

Owen chuffed, “What can you expect? Now, finish that up; we’ve got a plane to catch. Got your passport?”

Curt patted his pocket holding his fake American passport, “Yup,” he said as the last of the coffee slid down his throat in a particularly bitter trail.

“Economy now boarding, Rows one through to fifteen please come to the gate,” the air hostess's voice called out once again, forced cheer dripping through the speakers.

“Right,” Owen stood, folding the newspaper over his arm. He grabbed the handle of his non-descript day bag and led the two of them to the gates.

Getting through the boarding gate was no problem for the two, all smiles and a façade of charm that allowed them to breeze through despite their fake papers weighing heavily in their pockets.

Their seats were easier to find, but both, in hushed whispers, fought for the window seat, neither wanting to sit next to the businessman who spread himself across the aisle seat, his Stetson hat covering his eyes to block the florescent lights that hung above them.

Owen eventually conceded—the Brit’s politeness finally winning out with a tight smile—much to Curt’s glee as he stretched out as much as he could. He stared out through the window at the worker bee airport personnel loading the last of the luggage on, their hi-vis vests flashing under the lights of the plane. He watched them and felt a strange sense of peace; his eyelids began to droop, heavy with a buzzy softness that left his chest feeling light.

“Feeling alright, Mega?”

Curt blinked, chasing the tiredness from his foggy mind as he turned to his partner with a yawn, “Fine…” Owen’s face was light, wavering at the corners as the whole of his vision was enshrouded with a grey vignette.

“That’s—”

Curt didn’t hear the rest.

* * *

“Mega.”

It was all stale and smoke-filled; the hum of the engine rose up through the floor that felt both solid and empty beneath his feet, echoing with each kiss of the oxygen-void air that buffered against the plane.

_Oh God, he was flying._

“Mega, we’re landing soon.”

Curt rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hand, picking the sleep-grit from his eyes and swishing saliva around his mouth to wash away the scorpion’s nest that had set-up shop in his mouth. _God, he hated flying._

“Awake?” he heard Owen ask and turned to look at the Brit, his neck crying out in protest.

“Did…you say we’re landing?”

“Yeah, soon.”

“I slept the whole time?”

Owen shrugged, “Maybe you didn’t sleep as well as you thought. But don’t worry, I was kept thoroughly entertained by this fellow,” he inclined his head to the now sleeping cowboy, hat once again over his face. “Calls himself ‘Big Dick’ lord knows why,” Owen stage whispered as Curt’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Big gambler, luckily for me.”

Owen was holding up a battered wallet.

“Jesus Christ, Carvour, you swindled a guy? What happened to being discreet?”

“He was drunk.”

Curt’s jaw nearly connected with his chest as he looked at the wallet, which he now noticed was stuffed with dollar bills. “You swindled a drunk guy.”

“Hey now. No. I would never. He swindled himself by challenging me to some friendly card games. He introduced the gambling.”

“Right.”

“I can see the look on your face Mega, don’t worry; he won’t remember my face.”

A jolt ran through the cabin; Curt gripped the armrests with white knuckles as he whipped around to look out the window and was met with a void of white.

“Ah, we must’ve landed. I have no idea how those pilots do it. I had to fly a plane over Argentina once—

“Jesus,” Curt muttered, his forehead meeting the seat in front of him with a painful kiss, breath coming in short pants, “ _Christ._ ”

“You alright?”

“You didn’t tell me we were landing so _soon,_ ” Curt grit out as the plane taxied to a stop.

Owen’s mouth cut a sharp downward turn as he tucked Dick’s wallet into his jacket pocket. He said, “Well, we’ll be off soon.”

Curt was ready to vomit.

Owen dealt with the disembarkment, as Curt felt that the world was just at the edge of his fingertips, and it took most of his concentration not to heave as they shuffled across the snow-masked tarmac.

Their bags were spewed off the carousel, and Owen flagged down a taxi without much trouble, guiding Curt into the back with a small frown.

They were safely on their way before Owen murmured, “I didn’t realise you hated flying that much.”

Curt pressed his cheek against the window, looking at the greasy swirls made by past fingers that were captured by the condensation of breath. He barely heard the Brit and his sluggish mind struggled to respond. “I…I haven’t been this bad in years. Sorry, Owen.”

“What no ‘Carvour’?” Owen smirked.

“Too tired for all that…all that respect shit,” Curt mumbled, eyes sliding closed. The vision of white before him was about to fade, but an elbow dug into his side.

“Oi, stay awake. At least until we get to the hotel. We’ve got work to do tonight, _Curtis_.”

Curt’s eyes shot open, and he turned his head to the other agent, still slumped in his seat with the energy of a deflated balloon. “I’m awake! And Jesus, if you’re going to use my first name, at least say Curt. You sound like my mother.”

“And we wouldn’t want that.”

The two turned from one another, staring out their respective windows as the buildings of Warsaw flew past, each newer than the last in the Old Town. Curt remembered the photos after the war—the husk that the city used to be lingered upon the Poles' downturned faces that he caught out on the street. Poverty still held the city in its clutches despite the façade constructed by the city’s people.

Curt turned his attention inward, unable to think more upon the people of Warsaw without the horrible images of emaciated bodies and hulking concrete skeletons invading and scratching the inside of his skull.

Instead, his mind wandered to his partner; he couldn’t be entirely sure what existed within the man. Still, something had calcified around them once more, he thought he might have chipped through to the Owen tucked away underneath Agent Carvour. Still, the man was once again stiff with his aloof performance—all clenching jaws and eyes of stale muddied water instead of warm honey. Curt now noticed a white puckering of an old scar, bisecting his cheek – quick and clinical – purposeful as the man looked out his own window. Supressing a shudder, Curt turned away from his partner.

**OWEN LIST:**

**10\. Fickle**

**11\. Been through some shit**

The taxi pulled up at the hotel; Curt got out and let Owen settle as he held the money for the trip until they reached the room where their resources waited patiently for them. The hotel itself loomed, leaving Curt’s head spinning in dizzy circles with its height. It was one of the only buildings left standing from the Warsaw Uprising, all pillars and scrolling stonemasonry, but a victim of decay—the once bright stonework was blackened by the city’s smoggy air, their stairs were worn smooth by the passing of feet through time.

“Charming,” Owen said as he strode past, “Come on, don’t blacken their doorstep anymore, get in and get warm.”

Following the man, Curt watched in exasperation as he opened the doors with a dramatic flourish into the barely lit lobby. The room itself was a relic of bygone days cobbled together with very little cohesion. Luckily for them, it was empty, save the desk clerk who jerked awake at the sign of customers with a groggy smile.

“Cześć, jak mogę Ci pomóc?” the clerk asked, shuffling through papers that were strewn across the desk obviously by birds.

Owen replied, “Mamy zarezerwowany pokój dla dwóch osób.”

Curt frowned, and the clerk frowned and then of all things—Owen frowned. They all knew:

**OWEN LIST:**

**12\. The man was _terrible_ at accents. **

And so, time to speed things up, Curt wandered over, pushing the sickly feeling out of his system as he made eye contact with the young clerk; he smirked and said, “Przepraszam za niego. Rezerwacja będzie pod Wójcik.”

“Ach. Tak.”

The clerk busied himself with finding the keys from the many that waited upon the walls, giving Owen enough time to shoot Curt a gaze that could scare the dead. Thank God it was nothing on Cynthia’s, so it fell flat to the ground—dead.

Cheeks tinged pink, the clerk returned, and he handed the keys to Curt with a tinkle, his hand lingered a split-second too long, and— _Christ, now?_

“Dziękuję Ci,” Curt said and took Owen by the crook of the elbow before the Brit could inspect the shared gazes any further. They headed for the stairs, cases following at their heels as the wood complained bitterly under their weight as they made their ascent.

The room was not difficult to find after some initial confusion, and the two fell in, relieved to be out from under view of the public. First, bug sweep – thorough—necessary—and not at all swift—all of Curt’s least favourite things. But he ran his fingers along every surface, checked under shitty tables and even shittier carpet that smelt of cat piss. _Who had a cat in here? And did it die?_

He finished in under twelve minutes.

Curt tapped his foot, waiting for Owen to return from his own sweep that was taking twice as long; he could hear muttering from within one of the bedrooms but deigned any temptation to check on what the man was doing. They were beyond American borders, and therefore it was vital that he showed the other agent that he meant his words from that morning.

So he threw himself upon the couch that seemed to want to bite him back for the intrusion and settled in to wait—which really only included staring at the mildewed roof and jiggling his leg to the beat of the groaning of a vacuum cleaner down the hall.

Curt heard him before he saw Owen, swanning in as if he hadn’t just been riddled with anxiety, moving about the apartment like a hound on the hunt. Curt twisted in his seat to get a better look at the frazzled vision of his partner, who sat on a beat-up chair across from him, a small leatherbound case in his hands.

Unzipping the case, Owen looks through its contents, picking through each sheet of paper and removing two pistols, dumping them on the table before continuing. Leaning forward, Curt picked up one of the pistols, a Makarov, heavy within his palm, cool to the touch and filled with a promise. Curt disassembled the weapon, checking for treacherous lint and imperfections, but the weapon was void of any issues.

“Is this it?”

Owen looked up and down to the pistol, “It’s more discreet that way.”

“Ah, and we’ve done a brilliant job of that so far.”

_tick_

_tick_

_tick_

Owen’s foot was tapping against the ground, as Curt paused, waiting for the inevitable H-bomb that was the delicate ego sitting in front of him.

“Yes…sorry, old boy,” Owen didn’t make eye contact, and his hands still moved through the files, pulling them out and putting them in neat piles with robotic accuracy.

Flinching as the statue of Agent Carvour melted back into the Owen he was getting to know, Curt muttered, “It’s, ah, it’s not—no worries. We’re leaving tonight anyways.”

Owen finally looked up, his mouth still downturned, “Do you think you will need more rest before we leave? I just…it would be best if you were in good form. It is a long road ahead. I wouldn’t mind waiting.”

Curt balked, “No—no, we’ve got to leave. Your agent is expecting us in Slubice. It’s a four-hour drive—at least.”

Owen pulled out a jangling set of car keys. “Right. Well, you can sleep in the car? I can drive.” 

“What if something happens?” Wringing his hands, Curt knew that it did him no good to stress, but the pressure of his own fingers gave him something to focus on, letting the rhythm of the movement encase him the anxiety-ridding ritual.

“Then I’ll wake you up,” Owen said with a smile. With a flick of the wrist, he threw a little red book towards Curt, who snatched it from their air. A passport – Soviet. He opened it and grimaced.

“Igor? Really?”

Owen chuckled as he squinted at his own passport. “Always the way at least your name isn’t…Leonid? Lion? I’m a lion.”

“Christ, that _is_ bad.”

* * *

Four hours.

Four hours in a shitty little car that was battered about the road by the winds that slapped at the metal with vitriol.

Four hours watching the white lines on the bitumen disappear in streaking ribbons.

Four hours of Owen mumbling the lyrics to Fats Domino’s _Blueberry Hill_ and pretending that it wasn’t getting old, but there were only so many times Curt could list to an off-key, “ _I found my thrill...on Blueberry Hill,_ ” before—

“Can you shut it?”

“Don’t like the Fats?”

“Don’t like people butchering him more like.”

Owen gasped in mock offence, hand to forehead in some terrible impression of a Hollywood starlet. “Oh dare you! I’m a fine singer.”

“Maybe with a bit of practice and on those accent, Jesus Christ, what was that meant to be?” Curt said, watching the snow gathering in the corners of the windshield in a little white iceshelf.

“I’ll take lessons then, just to appease you. Well…we’re not too far off. Our agent doesn’t live too far out of town,” Owen said, fingers tightening around the well-worn steering wheel, pulling at the peeling pleather under his fingertips. “Ugh, I hate this stuff.”

“You hate everything, Carvour.”

Owen snorted, “Not Fats.”

“No, not Fats.”

The ride passed in silence after that. Sulbice and the mission were all there was to think about; it filled the car, thoughts became gaseous and invaded all their senses, filling them from toes to top with an anxious energy, leaving them frayed. Curt hadn’t been able to find sleep amongst the nervous filaments of his mind that bantered for his attention.

The car curved off the road, bumping along potholes that littered the road and jumped out from the darkness—too speedy to avoid.

“He’s on the edge of town just. Can you…check the map?”

Curt napped the maps from the glovebox. He flicked on the tiny flashlight in his watch as he unfolded the paper monstrosity.

“Couldn’t you’ve gotten a map in English?” he groused.

“Someone could search the car,” Owen said as he battered away the edges of the map that threatened to block his view of the road. 

Curt harrumphed, rebuffed with logic, was always a bit of a sore point.

“Turn left, here! Oi!”

The car swerved around the corner, screeching across the icy roads as they too the hairpin of a turn. Owen pulled on the steering wheel, taking the turn way too fast. The car settled on the left road, again moving at a steady pace as the two men caught their breath.

“Warn me next time!”

“You only just asked me to get out the map!” Curt nearly squeaked, his heart still in his throat as Owen growled, the dim headlights barely illuminating the uncovered road ahead of them.

“Shut up and let me concentrate.”

The rest of the ride was consumed by silence. Only Curt’s well-in-advance directions broke through the veil of quiet that had fallen across them.

Eventually, they came to a small clapboard hut standing in solitude in the middle of a fallow field. It was around two in the morning, and both men felt tiredness seep into their bones at the sight of their refuge. The porch light gleamed through the night, catching the snowflakes that floated around the house in a miasmatical winter’s dream.

They made their way silently, bags slung over their shoulders and sleep pulling at their eyelids. Near tripping across the uneven ground, they pulled themselves up the stairs, dragging themselves to the door. Owen stood in front of Curt _tap-thump-tap-tap-tap-kerthunk._ The coded knock was met with the creak of footsteps against the wood.

Swinging open with an ear-splitting creak, the door revealed a tall man, lanky limbs crowding the frame with pale skin and a thin downturned mouth. Two dark eyes were sunken into a narrow skull that was peppered with unkempt stubble.

That mouth opened and said, “Curt?”

_Aw fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH! 
> 
> Who is that? 
> 
> OH ALSO: (I don't speak Polish and I just did a google translate--Sorry I know it's bad. But here is the conversation if you're interested)  
> Hello, how can I help you?  
> We have a room booked for two.  
> Sorry about him. The book will be under_______  
> Ah. Yes.  
> Thank you.  
> (Yes, some would say I'm a master of dialogue)
> 
> ANYWAY! Post a wee comment if you're feeling some kind of way


	4. The Grip of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Curt is faced with a man from his past that leaves him bewildered and off-balance. He needs to focus if he and Owen are to make it to Frankfurt alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So this is a really quick update as I've got a really busy week(s) and I'm not sure when I'll be back to update this story in the coming days. (Don't worry I'm not abandoning it, I just didn't want to leave it on the cliff hanger of last chapter!)
> 
> Welcome to plot. We love to see it.

* * *

Curt had an inbuilt habitual honesty, which for a spy was a dubious trait at best; however, it was firmly encased within his years of training and locked behind a steel door of shameful terror. Although there was only one person, he was always honest with—himself.

At this moment, in this bright moment of complete, thunderous clarity, he was at peace with the universe. He was honest.

And he was done for.

Before him, wrapped in shadows, stood Henry Chase, a memory that he cherished made flesh once more. Poland had been a beautiful escape, moments stolen after the Nazis were pushed from the city after the war. His first mission partnered with another agent from Allied powers.

They had been competitive, sluiced with blood from messy missions, hard-won, that travelled into motels and safehouses with a reckless abandon and bruising fingers. Acting as mutual refuges from the chaos surrounding them that was still etched into Poland's fabric.

Henry had been a friend but no more beyond a purely physical sense—they detested themselves for it, for temptation and weakness. Henry had a wife—Loiselle, who was caring for their daughter. She was four at the time. She liked ponies, but Curt could not remember her name, just the little moon of a face that had stared up at him when Henry had shown her off from her trappings in his wallet. They had to burn it when their safehouse was raided. They had nearly torn each other apart like dogs for what they had done to each other. The world had slipped into the little bubble they had created that night—

And he was fucking here.

“W-what?” Curt breathed.

“Do you two know each other?” Owen asked, confusion etched into the creases of his forehead as he looked between the two men.

“We—ah…had a mission together, Carvour. A long while ago now. Come in.”

Owen took a step into the small house as Henry moved out of the way, towering over them both. Owen asked, “In—”

“Classified.” Henry and Curt said together, looking anywhere but each other’s faces.

“Right. That’s not what I was going to ask, but…right,” Owen said clipped as the group walked through the dark hallway, “Christ Chase, do you use lights?”

“No electrics out here,” Henry replied, moving around the two other men with ease, but Curt could hear from the thunk of the other man’s feet that he was limping – heavily. Henry’s hand landed on Curt’s shoulder as he walked by, and his palm nearly burned through the thick layers of Curt’s clothing.

The house itself was no warmer than it was outside; only when the group go closer to their fire did their muscles melt for want of warmth, they were drawn as moths were. Their faces illuminated orange, catching the darkness that swam around them.

“Nice place,” Curt said, looking around at the indistinct shadows that could have morphed into anything.

The smirk that jumped onto Henry’s face was made ugly by the warping light, each pore was darkened, and his eyes became dark and hungry. “Haven’t changed, have you, Mega? Still a sarcastic arse.”

“As always,” Curt snarked back with a smile. “How’s the daughter?”

Henry smiled; pulling a tattered box of matches from his pocket, he lit one of the tiny sticks in the fire, “Do you really care?” he asked, lighting candles around the room. Each pinprick of light revealed a spartan loungeroom – one couch, one chair, no coffee table, and a stack of books next to the couch seemed to be the only decorations.

“Of course!”

“Liar.”

Curt raised an eyebrow; Henry’s voice lacked any venom. It was more as if he were commenting on the weather or tragedies of a far-off and apathetic war instead of his own daughter. Instead, the man moved with confidence born from years of living within the dark, and indeed he smiled.

“So, did you know I was coming?” Curt asked.

“I knew it was Carvour with an American; I didn’t realise he would have the misfortune of meeting you.”

“Ouch!”

The two laughed, and Henry rushed over to him, scooping him into a hug by the fire, warm and stable—it was nice to be held. Over Henry’s shoulder, Curt saw Owen watching them, just outside of the touch of the firelight, nearly invisible. His face was completely neutral as he watched the two embrace.

Curt broke the hug.

“Right, come on, then show me!” he chortled, slapping Henry’s arm.

“Oh alright,” Henry groused; pulling out a wallet, he opened it and presented it to the fire, letting Curt see the now older face of his daughter, mischief held within the sharp upturn of her mouth.

“She looks like a handful,” Curt said.

“Ah! Well, I guess I wouldn’t know. Work and all,” Henry said, running a gloved finger over his daughter’s face. “I hope she is, a handful, I mean. More fun that way.”

Owen shuffled in the background, and Curt’s eyes snapped to him, an apology already on his lips, but he was met with a subtle shake of the head.

“Haven’t gotten any leave?” Owen asked, taking a step closer to the two.

Henry shook his head, shoulders slumped as the heavy weight of another man’s sadness rested itself across them all.

“That’s alright though, I’ll get home eventually,” Henry muttered. He pulled himself together as if pulled back up by strings, his stiff smile leaving Curt a little uneasy. “Anyway, you boys have been driving all night. Let me show you to the rooms, and then I can actually get some sleep!”

Henry was already off before either of the other two spies could respond; they just stared at each other for a moment, a grim communication in the dark as they went to follow Henry into the shadowed innards of the house.

Henry showed them to the bathroom and their separate rooms, Curt for a moment, wondered if Owen would insist upon sharing a room again, but the other man wandered past and shut the door with a quiet shush.

Curt could swear he heard Henry’s eyes roll in the dark as he muttered, “Charmer.”

“Eh, he’s alright.”

“Sure.”

The two walked back down, away from Owen’s room and to the room that Curt would be staying in.

“This is you.”

“I can see that…as you’ve stopped and now you’re looming here as you always do—”

“Because you think I expect something from you.”

“And do you?”

“Of course not. Curt…that was a long time ago. I’ve— you know…gotten over that phase in my life.”

Curt’s heart dropped at that, limp in his chest at the thought. Was this something that could be gotten over? He inspected Henry as if desire could be tracked topographically across his face in the dark. He asked, “Really? Just like that?”

“Just like that. I just…made sure that I didn’t think about it. I _love_ my wife, Curt.”

Curt shuffled on his feet, “I know that.”

The sigh was quiet and damming, “No, you don’t. Not really…just watch him, Curt. I don’t want you getting hurt, alright?”

Curt choked on any words that could have made their way out of his mouth at Henry’s utterance. So instead, he nodded with a stiff jerk and closed the door.

The bed was hard, and the pillows were horrible, and the blankets were scratchy, and the walls moaned under the pressure of the wind, and Curt missed the warm lump that had been next to him across the sea, and he felt a sinking in his chest at the thought of it.

And _fuck_ Henry.

Sleep did not come for a long time.

* * *

The next day was filled with what could only be called shuffling. It was too cold to do much except complain about the cold and huddle around the fire. Henry attempted to read to them a few times, but he gave up quickly as they were both scowling hard as the words plunked to the ground unheard.

Owen spent most of the time in his room, only emerging to make tea and mumble about his book. It was nearly finished apparently, and Curt smiled at that—at least someone was doing something vaguely productive.

They were to pass through to Frankfurt at night, on a small boat away from the border crossing. According to Henry, the border force had clamped down upon crossings, and they all agreed it was too much of a risk to attempt going through a checkpoint. So, in all his infinite wisdom, Curt believed that he should rest, conserve energy in case they needed to run. He hoped, in the little kernel of himself that was curled up in his chest, that they would—if only to warm up.

Henry pottered around, less concerned about the cold than the other two spies. His whistles cut through the silence as he made soup for dinner, unaware of the unhappy atmosphere around him. He was all smiles and placed a bowl of brown mush into Curt’s hands.

“Eat up,” he said, “We’ll be heading out soon.”

Curt started and looked out the window, his eyes meeting the black sky as Henry walked off. He heard him knocking at the door and the muttered exchange of words as he slurped at the gifted soup.

It was bland.

Owen moved into the room, wrapped in a crocheted blanket and a bowl of soup in hand. Curt looked down and realised his spoon had stopped halfway to his mouth; with gusto, he shoved it between his lips and ignored the raised eyebrow that Henry sent him behind Owen’s back.

He sat down next to Curt, and the two ate in silence.

The chair's springs across from the screeched as Henry lowered his weight into it slowly with a grimace.

“You alright?” Curt asked.

Henry nodded, “Yeah, yeah. Fine. The leg just—”

“It’s still bad?” Curt asked, shocked.

Henry looked into his own soup, chewing his lip as if the liquid could give him the answers he needed, “Erm, well it never really got better. That’s why I got stationed out here. ‘The Ferryman of Poland’ they’ve started calling me back at the office which is…” he laughed drily, “really nice of them.”

“If you’re injured, you shouldn’t be out in the field,” Owen mutter.

Henry leaned back in his chair, “I don’t disagree with you, Carvour. But after the war sign-ups have dried up and with the recent fuck up MI6 has no one to trust, not even their own. I’ve been cleared and so…” he said with a flourish of his hand, “I am here.”

“But that can’t be legal!” Owen stressed, his soup untouched as he gripped at the bowl. Curt wondered vaguely about what would crack first—the bowl or the agent. 

Henry smirked at that, “I don’t think any spy agency has ever cared about what was legal.”

“Fuck,” Owen hissed.

“Don’t worry about it, Carvour.”

“But it’s not…”

“Fair? Eh, who cares about that? I get to help you out, and I’ll be out of here soon. I really don’t mind. For Queen and country, right old man?”

A muscle in Owen’s jaw jumped, and Curt wanted to open the man’s skull and get a read on what he was thinking—despite the bloody imagery it evoked, it seemed to be the only real way to get through to Carvour.

They fell into silence and ate their soup. Because what else was there to do on the edge of the world?

* * *

Henry was a terrible driver. When they had worked together, Curt had to drive them everywhere.

He was driving, and Curt was fearing for his life—as any reasonable person would. The chains on the wheels did little to stop the car wavering at each corner, threatening to come off the road at any moment. They were bumping along the back roads of Slubice, avoiding the more built-up areas as they drove to the drop off point. Henry’s fingers danced across the steering wheel as the man bit the inside of his lip in nervousness.

Owen, true to form, was asleep in the back. Nothing got that guy nervous.

Curt himself was just holding on for dear life to the door handle.

“Not far off.”

The car skidded down a hill, the lights of Frankfurt glinted across the water, but Curt was more concerned about the swiftly approaching dark wasters of the river.

“Hit the breaks!”

The car groaned in protest, and they went barrelling down the hill.

A, “Wha?” came from the back as Owen’s body hit the back of their chairs, the car now stationary next to the water.

“Safe and sound,” Henry breathed.

“Fuck’s sake!” Curt cried, and he shot out of the car, his feet squelched into the mud underneath his feet, grabbing at him with its earthen hands, and he swore to God if the night got any worse, he was going to lose it. They were nice shoes and all.

He heard the other doors opening, the rust of the doors protesting as the other two men meandered over to join Curt.

Henry pointed to a dark shadow at the edge of the river that broke up the light caught by the water. “The boat’s just there. Rowing unfortunately. Go straight across, and you’ll come to this little pebbly beach. Owen, you should be able to find the safehouse from there, correct?”

Owen nodded stiffly.

“Good.”

Henry held out his hand, his skin pale under the moon that hung above the three men, watching their clandestine parting. Owen shook it and was pulled into a hug by the taller man. Curt heard the murmur of words caught upon the downwind but nothing distinct.

“Goodbye then,” Owen said, a frown creased his forehead as he muttered, “Thank you for your help.”

Henry smiled, “You can thank me when you get across.” He turned to Curt and smiled, warm and small; he held open his arms, and the two clutched each other. Henry leaned close to Curt’s ear, lips brushing at the shell he whispered, “Focus. Don’t repeat history, eh?” Curt’s insides turned to stone at the words.

He pulled away and clapped him on the shoulder; both men ignored Owen’s quizzical look. Henry shrugged his coat further over his body. Hunching over from the cold, he nodded.

“Right, good luck.”

He turned and walked away; hopping into the car, he backed the vehicle away, making sure the headlights remained off until he was back onto the road and away.

“Well,” Owen said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “This isn’t ideal, but at least our bags are waterproof, eh old chum? Come on!” He pushed Curt with gentle hands towards the boat; the two picked their way through the mud and got closer to the dingy.

“This is a piece of shit,” Curt muttered, kicking the side with his muddy boot.

“But quiet, no engine. ‘sides, I’ve had worse. Hop in. You can row,” Owen said, with an unnatural cheeriness as he folded his long limbs into some semblance of comfort within the small vessel.

“Push ‘er out!”

“Why do I have to do it?” Curt complained.

Owen snorted, “You’re the stronger out of us, Obviously.”

Curt grit his teeth as he pushed the prow of the boat in the water, through the coiling mud, “You don’t know that.”

“You’re right. I just didn’t want to. These shoes were expensive!” Owen chortled, looking up into the sky of plucked seeds made of light that were sewn across the dark, expansive fabric of the sky. His face was caught in the grey-blue half-light, leaving his eyes shining.

Curt tripped.

“Oof,” he groaned, clothes now caked with mud as his knees and shoulders met the ground with a sharp impact upon his joints.

“You alright, dear?”

Curt glared up to where he knew Owen sat, met only with the boat's slats now sitting in the water. “I’m in the mud, Carvour.”

“Stuck in the mud.”

Curt picked himself up off the ground; flicking muck from his clothes, he grumbled, “You’re impossible.”

The sight of a smiling Owen melted a little of the simmering annoyance in his stomach. He waded through the water, his shoes an already waterlogged mess were not accounted for and splashed an inordinate amount of water upon the pine deck of the tiny dingy.

“Impossible but not wet, I count that as an absolute win.”

They set off, the water cut by the boat’s swift movement thanks to Curt’s rowing; he was thankful for it, the water had been frigid, and the exercise was quickly warming his body. It was some terrible inversion of those romance novels that his mother loved to read. The two friends row out into the middle of a lake, enshrouded by lily pads caught in the rhythmic ripples that cascade off the boat and protected by the soft, dropping arms of the willows as they professed their hidden love to one another.

Curt and Owen were crossing into enemy territory, exposed in the middle of a river dredged to the point of ruin. They were only two steps away from despising each other, standing on the knife’s edge of put on civility masked through cutting jokes. They were silent now, guards were known to patrol the boundaries of Frankfurt. While they had no lights, the swish of the oars through the water was loud enough to be heard from some distance in the quiet, that was only defined by a stray owl’s hoots that cooed across the expanse of rippling ink before them.

Curt stole a few breaths from the world for a minute, capturing the air in his lungs as Frankfurt drew closer, a golden light jutting from the earth in regal towers within the sea of black.

The air buzzed, superheated by his ear, and it squealed—screamed—white and blue—hot—burning and ripping.

“Bullets,” Owen hissed, dropping down to the deck, his hand a claw as he dragged Curt down with him, under the seats the two of them drew close, their breaths mingling in the cold as bullets cut through the air, sizzling the iced-out air and pockmarking the water behind them.

“Fuck,” Curt whispered. Owen’s grip retreated, and he heard a rustling in the dark; Owen was writhing against him for a moment, muttering as he grabbed his bag.

“Right I’ve got—” he pulled out two regulators attached to a small ballooned tank that rested between them. _Fucking scuba gear._ “Here.”

**OWEN LIST:**

**12\. He really did have a plan for everything.**

Owen shoved the regulator into Curt’s hands; fumbling around in the dark, Curt managed to hiss out, “We’ll freeze.”

“Or we’ll die. Come on.”

Owen rolled and disappeared with barely a splash, and Curt was alone—frozen to the boards, suffocating on his own inability that grappled him with knobbly fingers—fucking _idiot._

He trembled and listened to the hiss of bullets that would pop his skull like a ripe summer fruit it he gave them half the chance.

“Mega!” he heard from the side of the boat, and the single harsh word melted the mental fastenings around him.

He slid into the water and became surrounded by darkness once more; Frankfurt's lights wavered and dipped in the moving currents above him. The abandoned boat moved like a great fish, carried off by the water's steady movement. Bullets cascaded around them, digging into the water with swirling bubbles that popped through the water without mercy. Curt begged them to spare them as he kicked through the water, barely aware of his direction in the water. The chill slipped into his body through his pores, shaking a beastly fear out of his body and to the forefront of his mind. Everything froze, and everything zipped as he went into survival mode, his body buzzing; he searched around for Owen in the dark and met his eyes, whites of his eyes wide and fearful like a prey animal he had seen in a National Geographic magazine. _God what was he thinking?_

Curt pointed to the direction of the shore, and Owen nodded his near-black hair in the water swirling around him in a diadem as the two swum breathing steady and sure. The bullets did not follow, eventually petering off; Curt hoped the guards thought them dead.

Tapping Owen on the ankle, Curt pointed to the undulating surface, Owen nodded in one sharp movement, and Curt broke the water; droplets clung to his face. The water in his shoes made treading water difficult as he looked to the shore, his eyes just above the water like a crocodile. He couldn’t see any guards along the shoreline until he let his view pan across—they were following the boat, he nearly sunk with relief—if only his body was warm enough to allow him to relax.

He felt a tug at his leg, and he dipped back underwater, Owen was waiting, and Curt pointed to the shore giving a thumbs up.

It was slow going; their bodies were sore and bitten at by the cold. Their clothes weighed them down, and they took turns dragging the other through the water that tried to drag them to the bottomless depth of the river with fingers of weeds and surging currents that yanked at their clothes.

The muddy bottom came up to meet them, their tank becoming dangerously low with the last meters to shore, heads woozy and limbs thick with exhaustion; the two dragged themselves ashore, flopping onto the pebbled beach like desperate lungfish, gulping in the frigid night air in heavying gasps.

“Christ,” Owen muttered, already tremoring in the cold.

“W-we need to get to the safehouse,” Curt chattered in response, his teeth clinking painfully against one another. “ _Now_.”

“Just—”

“Nope,” Curt said and grabbed Owen’s arm dragging him to his feet, “Point me, and I swear if you can’t make it, Carvour, I’ll fucking carry you and then maybe kill you myself, got it?”

Owen nodded mutely, his blue lips quivering under the limpid glow of the streetlights that seemed so bright from afar. He pointed to the south-eastern side of the city, a poorer part of town that was half derelict.

“Right.” Curt heaved Owen’s arm over his shoulder and set off on legs that didn’t want to work and clenched jaw that would barely let him speak. He kept his ears open as they made their way onto the road, sticking to the corners where the streetlamps dared not to touch. Owen thankfully carried most of his weight as they stumbled through the streets, slipping between buildings at Owen’s mumbled directions.

There were few who paid them any notice, either too engrossed in their own nightly dealings or drunk from a night inundated with liquor.

“It’s there!” Owen hissed; Curt looked over and noticed the man was biting into his cheek, eyebrows furrowed and teeth bloodied as he pointed at a small building that looked like it was once a bakery, it’s old sign curled from age. “Get my—get the keys from my bag.”

Curt fumbled for a moment. Bringing the leather carry case around, he dug through the pockets, past papers and a bottle of pills that—

“You mother fucker!” Curt hissed, hand now digging into Owen’s shoulder in what must have been a painful grip.

“What?” Owen asked.

“You fucking—you fucking drugged me? On that plane, you fucking—How did I not even…fuck.”

Owen froze, “T-this is not the time to be talking about this, Mega. Get the keys, get us inside, and then you can kill me, eh, old boy?”

He didn’t deny it, and he didn’t look at Curt; his eyes were trained on the safehouse across the road, searching the streets. Curt finally found the keys behind Carvour’s stupid dogeared-to-hell book and dragged the man across the street.

They slinked up the stairs and entered the house with silent steps, listening with straining ears. But nothing made itself known. The house was quietly breathing, welcoming them into its safe embrace.

Curt took them, dripping into the lounge. He felt around for the couch and dumped the near-dead weight of Carvour onto it.

He walked to the windows, shutting the blinds with too much force and grinding teeth. He found the light switch and flicked it on.

Carvour was a pathetic picture prostrate upon the couch, his face pale and hair plastered across his forehead. He was also bleeding, a crimson splotch slowly growing and shifting through the dark weave of his pants. Dripping on the ground in sharp little _plunks._

“Fuck.”

Curt came forward, hands shaking to the shuddering Carvour; he pulled his pocketknife from within his jacket and got to work hacking at Owen’s pant leg.

“M—my watch?” Owen stuttered out from lips that opened only slightly to reveal bloodied teeth.

“Fucking what?”

Owen looked to his wrist, where the beat-up old watch sat, unobtrusive and filled with water. Owen searched the face of it for a moment, eyes swirling around the face before he closed his eyes.

Curt was not nearly as interested in a fucking watch, thank you very much.

He was staring at Owen’s pale thigh. Dark hair was a matted mess across a dark wound that wept, but not fatally, it was a graze at best, but it would need to be bandaged before he lost too much blood.

Curt growled and shot up from his crouching position, his knees groaned in protest, but he made his way to the bathroom. It was a tiny thing, a matchbox of a room with tiles that begged for a clean.

Curt didn’t really give a shit about that.

Instead, with pinpoint focus, found the small first-aid kit that was kitted out in most safehouses under the sink. He stalked back into the lounge, facing down and injured Carvour. He threw the first-aid kit at him. It hit the man in the chest with a thump, Owen’s eyes cracked open—fucking pathetic.

“Patch yourself. I’m going to have a shower. Don’t go into shock.”

Curt turned on his heel. He only got halfway across the room before Owen croaked, “Henry he—”

“I know.”

He slammed the door shut. 

**OWEN LIST:**

**13\. Absolute asshole.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Anway! Comments are very nice and really do make me happy and maybe will make me write more soft moments between the boys? Like that's up to you I suppose...it's not like I'm bribing you or anything.


	5. Tell Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warning** for this chapter! I know it says it in the tags but I want to reiterate that this story is a safe space and if you don't feel comfortable reading any of these bits I'm going to put a summary of the chapter at the end for you! 
> 
> Will include: implied nudity and sexual acts, internalised homophobia, slurs and mentions of hate crimes. 
> 
> None of this is particularly explicit but stay safe my loves!

* * *

The shower battered pins against his head, tapping a rhythm across his skin in a lukewarm staccato. Tiles warped in front of him, melding together in a teeth-yellow mess – this place was a mess – a fitting setting for the man that was more a meeting of limbs than a person. His head was full of cotton and anger that he so desperately clung to despite its penchant for slipping from his grasp. He pressed the knuckles of his fists against the tiles, letting them cool his rage-heated skin.

_God, he was tired._

He barely heard the door creak open, behind the rush of water. The shush of bare feet upon the tiles didn’t reach him beyond the thundering. In a flutter, the shower curtain was dragged back, and he jumped with a start, nearly slipping on the tiles.

“Henry! Jesus Christ,” Curt muttered, hand over his thumping heart. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Henry smirked and hopped into the shower with him, closing the curtain; his hands were immediately at Curt’s waist, thumbs circling the skin there. 

“You’re meant to be a good spy Mega. Didn’t you hear me coming?”

“I was preoccupied with being mad at you.”

“Ah. I see,” Henry sent him a blasé smile. “You have nothing to be mad about.”

“You blew our cover!”

“It was going to be blown anyway. That fucking French piece of shit’s accent…”

“Wow, brits really do hate the French, huh?”

Henry’s hair was flattening against his skull from the spray, casting dark lines across his face as he said, “Not as much as we hate the Americans.” He leaned into a kiss.

_BUH-BUH-BUH_

Curt jerked, ripping himself out of the daydream, staring at similar yellow tiles and a similar shower curtain and similar hands – water catching in the tiny ponds of his palms. The water was hotter, though – scalding.

_BUH-BUH-BUH!_

“What?!” Curt shouted through the door.

He heard the muffled voice of Owen respond, “I…Uh…I need to wash the wound and I—I er can’t get my leg in the sink so…”

Curt pressed his forehead into the tiles, letting the cool of the ceramic seep through him for a moment. He contemplated letting the other man stand out there and drip blood onto the floor.

“Fine,” Curt muttered, and he turned off the shower that shuddered to a stop, pipes groaning. He needed to report to Cynthia anyway; she was probably blowing more steam than the shitty office kettle at this point. He wrapped himself up in a stiff towel that scratched at his skin and went to the door, yanking it open.

Owen stood there wide-eyed and caught – Curt realised that he was the fucking headlights. _Nice._

“Right. There.” Curt shouldered past him, holding the towel in a fist at his waist.

“Curt I—”

“Save it.” Curt muttered and retreated to his room, ignoring the cooling fingers of the water that still clung to him. He wasn’t sure which was his, but this would do – spartan and empty. He ran his fingers along all the surfaces, keeping his ears open for the tell-tale whir of bugs, but there seemed to be none.

He flicked the button on his watch, letting it ring tinnily through the room as he vaguely heard the sound of the water running.

“Hello?” Cynthia's grainy voice echoed from the speaker.

Curt let out a relieved sigh; a hello was a good sign. “Agent Mega, reporting.”

“Ah shit. Mega, I thought you’d died,” she didn’t sound particularly concerned with this face.

“Nearly.”

There was a moment of tense silence.

“Ah, what happened?” she asked, a terse edge to her voice.

Curt rubbed his eyes, “Henry, the old MI6 agent I was posted with that time in Poland, you remember?” Cynthia grunted her assent. “I think he’s gone rogue.”

“Fuck,” Cynthia hissed.

“He ratted us out, and we got caught halfway across the river luckily, ah—agent Carvour brought gear, and we swam to shore the guards didn’t find us.”

“Well, thank fuck for the brit.”

“I’m requesting an extraction, effective immediately.”

“Like fuck you are, Mega. You’re in enemy territory, idiot!” Curt rubbed his knuckles into his temple.

“Carvour’s injured.”

Cynthia tutted, “How bad?”

Curt’s mind stuttered over for a moment, “He was shot.”

“Very clear. Well, I doubt Sinclair will let him leave with anything non-life-threatening,” Curt heard Cynthia sucking on a cigarette, undoubtedly filling her office with clouds of smoke. “Look, Mega. I’ll contact Sinclair let him know one of his agents is a fucking turncoat, and the other’s a pansy but fuck, get your head in the game, alright. You’re there to observe and help out. Don’t lose your head now.”

The call disconnected with a click.

“Fuck,” Curt muttered and threw himself onto the bed. The ceiling stared back at him, blank and waiting. Curt’s thoughts churned across the surface, Henry’s gaunt features swirling and filling up the white spaces, his smile as he left them on the muddy edge of Poland. The face of his daughter teeming with potential and mischief from the creased photo. Curt berated himself, pressing his face into a pillow; he should have _fucking realised._ He was meant to be good at reading people, but he had been blind, allowing the tint of the past to colour his vision of the present.

 _THUD._ The sound of a body hitting the floor reverberated through the apartment, followed by a short, low groan. Curt paused for a moment hoping to ignore the sound, before he shot to his feet, letting himself be carried in a panic – he came to the bathroom door. He denied himself the privilege of barging in; just because someone didn’t respect boundaries didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

“Carvour? You alright in there?”

“Fine,” Curt heard Owen moan.

Curt bit his lip for a moment. “Do I…do you want some help? Did you fall?”

Curt pressed his ear up against the door, trying to stretch his perception into the room beyond the wood; he could hear the painful quick breaths of his partner but no movement.

“Alright, I’m going to come in.”

“No, I—”

The door swung open, and Curt would have been under the impression that it did so on its own had it not been for his hand on the handle. He was pretty sure his body was not actually his, or perhaps he had lost all function; maybe he had died. He couldn’t be sure that he cared.

The room was a child’s painting, all in reds. Smeared and sullied across the off-whites of the tiles, it was a gruesome sight. He took one step and looked down; he was leaving footprints in his partner’s blood.

“Fuck.”

He rushed over to Owen’s prone form in front of the pitiful excuse for a bath.

“I didn’t realise it was that bad,” Curt whispered, hands hovering over the wound of Owen’s leg.

Owen hissed, “Worse…when I fell.”

“Right, let get you cleaned up, and I think I’m going to have to stitch this now, you moron.”

He ignored the brown eyes that bored into him and his own guilt that wrapped around each of his limbs, leaving them heavy, throbbing and clumsy. Shame was a fucking bitch sometimes.

“Let me put a towel on first,” Owen muttered, reaching for the rack that was just out of reach.

Curt snatched the towel off the railing and shoved it towards Owen, blush surely bursting across his cheeks; he hadn’t even noticed in his panic. The other man wrapped himself up, wincing gingerly as he made himself decent. Curt busied himself by grabbing the first-aid kit from the sink and turning off the shower that was slowly soaking the floor, turning the tiles pink as it diluted the blood on the floor. Ripping open the fluffy white cloths, Curt got to work, soaking them in iodine.

“Can you…lift yourself up onto the bath? It would make this easier,” Curt asked, staring at a birthmark the shape of Spain upon Owen’s shoulder instead of the man’s face. He watched Owen’s muscles strain under the dark mark as he brought himself up with barely a grimace; his fingers were white-knuckled against the white plastic of the bath.

Curt looked at the wound on Owen’s thigh; the frame of the grey towel did nothing to hide the angry read mouth that had widened in his absence. He was sure the thing would grow teeth.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Owen gritted out, a pained smile on his face. Images of a near-dead Bugs bunny flashed into Curt’s mind, and he hurried to clean the wound, ignoring Owen’s hissing.

**OWEN LIST:**

**15\. Terrible sense of humour. Just fucking awful.**

“Well, you’re obviously suffering from blood loss,” Curt spat out.

Owen lifted a groggy eyebrow. “And how do you suppose that?”

“Because that joke was shit.”

Owen fell silent, his mouth a picture of confusion and his face covered in a sheen of sweat.

They sat in silence; Curt sat between the other man’s knees, cleaning and eventually stitching with a hand, too practised for this to be his first rodeo. He watched the black thread pull and push at the skin around the wound, some terrible image of a dolphin in the waves jumped into his mind at the sight, and he banished it quickly. Finishing up, he stood, knees clicking as he came to his full height.

“You should be able to bandage that yourself,” he said. He turned around, but a clammy hand wrapped around his wrist. He stopped, the rough skin rubbed against the delicate skin of his inner wrist, and a treacherous part of him swooped at the contact, heat moving towards his face.

“Thank you for this, Curt…I appreciate your kindness.”

Curt's heart – the bastard – decided that moment was the moment to speed up; he understood, he really did. Human contact infused with affection had been so minimal over the passing years he had become a starving man for it – his body was bound to betray him at even a tiny sign of someone actually appreciating him. But Curt was more intelligent than that; his training let him beat the weaker parts of himself into submission.

“Right,” Curt extracted himself from Owen’s grip and walked out of the bathroom but not before placing a bottle of pain killers in Owen’s palm with a sharp nod.

He threw himself back onto the bed but did not sleep. Instead, he listened to the sound of Owen taking himself to bed – slow and painful. It seemed they would not be sharing tonight. No matter the risks.

* * *

Curt awoke, sleep still caught in the corners of his vision, leaving everything muddy in the near-dark. It seemed Germany in the winter did not invite the sun to stay long. He looked around the room, taking in the blank walls and the terrible, stained carpet.

Owen was there, standing but barely, leaning against the doorframe, his face gaunt and pale. The hollows of his cheeks were small caves where the shadows of the early morning resided.

They stared at one another in silence. Owen moved closer to the bed, his steps echoing along the floorboards. His face was horrible, blank as the walls around them. Curt moved, his back pressing against the headboard, his body bent uncomfortably.

“O-Owen?”

Owen crawled across the bed, limbs moving as if they were barely attached to his body, disconnected and gangly – his eyes bulged out of his skull, and his smile revealed too many teeth – sharp and wicked. Saliva dripped down his chin in ropey strands from the corner of his mouth.

He leaned in.

Curt could hear shattering. Glass flew across the room, a cascading rain that caught the low light and flickered through his peripheries, cutting at his skin. Owen didn’t notice, his skin splitting in tiny cuts crisscrossing across his face as arms, cleaving his like putty.

Curt jerked, and he was staring at the ceiling, the blankets wrapped around him in a tornado of cotton and cold sweat.

“Sorry for waking you.” The voice was sleep-roughed itself in the dark, but it was obviously Owen’s. “You were screaming, so I...”

_Fuck._

“Oh,” Curt breathed, still looking at the ceiling, wanting to see if it was possible to fly up and through it, back to America with barely a thought. It did not seem to be going well.

“Want me to get you a glass of water?”

Curt stiffened, “No,” he said – short.

“Er, alright, then.”

“You put it in my coffee, didn’t you?” Curt asked, watching spots dance across his vision; he felt like he was listening to the radio talk back to him rather than having a conversation with his partner.

“I figured you weren't used to the taste, so…”

“I wouldn’t notice.”

Curt heard the footsteps. They were quiet, a whisper against the carpet and the bend of the mattress by his feet.

“Yes,” Owen muttered. Curt could hear the man tapping upon the frame of the bed, his fingers tapping away to a beat he did not recognise. “I apologize for what I did. It was truly inappropriate I just—”

“I don’t really want to hear an excuse. You’re a dick; that’s all I need to know.”

“No, I think you should know. It’s not an excuse, but I think you have the right even if…well, don’t tell anyone I told you this. I just— I haven’t been around people, agents especially, in _so long_ that I…I bollocksed it up. I was in America on a mission, Mafia apparently had connections in British Parliament, career ruining as it always is, but deep cover always leaves me…dislocated like I’m not…and I just— I dealt with the problem, the plane problem, as if you were a _gang member_ like an idiot and I’m honestly truly sorry Curt.”

They went silent again. Curt could feel the other man squirming, and he was fucking thankful – he felt bad at least; the same could not be said for Henry. He brought the brakes on that thought right there. He did not want to compare the two men; that was far too dangerous for his liking.

But there was a wall between them – it wasn’t good – it would kill them eventually. Curt cleared his throat.

“Don’t drug me again.”

“I w-won’t,” Owen whispered, his voice catching, tripping through what Curt hoped was a sliver of emotion from the man.

“Good,” Curt finally sat up; crossing his legs, he looked at the lumpy shadow that was the other man. His head was hung to his chest, his back hunched over.

“I think we need to…discuss the future of this mission,” the lump said.

“Alright.”

Curt turned on the lamp and was met with a rather pathetic sight. The other man was pale and dark circles ringed his eyes, leaving him looking sunken; his hair was plastered across his forehead and sticking up in all directions. He was rubbing at his thigh; the ruby of his blood was only just peeking through the white – the bandage would need changing soon. He was also wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses.

“I fucking knew it,” Curt murmured, taking in the sight of Owen with the glasses. He looked more austere, if that was even possible.

“Yes, okay, you were right. But that’s not important; I spoke to Sinclair,” Owen said, looking at the wall as if he were trying to read from it. “Obviously, I can’t leave, but I’ve been cleared. Not that it means much in light of Henry, I suppose.”

Curt’s mind stuttered for a moment, “So?”

Owen started for a moment, “It means you don’t have to be here, is what it means.”

Curt paused, flipping the piece of information over in his mind, petting it settled behind his eyes as it gnawed at him. He could go back to America, see his mother, and forget Poland, Owen and Henry, and East Germany that weighed upon both of them – suffocating any working relationship out of them.

“I—”

“I know you don’t want to be here. If I’m honest, I would rather be back home myself. Especially, with the bung leg, and I wouldn’t hold it against you if you—”

“I’ll stay.”

The words hung there, surprising both of them at their appearance. Finally, they looked at one another, catching each other in their gazes.

“Are you sure?” Owen asked, eyes widening into two dark pools full of too much vulnerability. Curt looked away and shrugged.

“Who else is going to watch out for you? ‘sides, I’m sure America has their own investigation going,” Curt snorted. He knew even if he agreed, Cynthia wouldn’t let him leave. America had just as much of stake in this mission as the British, maybe even more so, no matter what she said about baby-sitting.

“Well, I—thank you. It will be good, not going in there alone,” Owen gave a small crooked smile. Curt sighed and looked at his fingers knitted in his lap.

“It’s no problem…Did you, er, did you tell Sinclair about Henry?” Curt asked.

Owen’s features darkened at the other man's mention; his grip on the bedframe became claw-like. He whispered, “I did.”

“Right.”

“You two were close?” Owen asked.

Curt didn’t trust himself to speak; the words cut at his throat, begging to be released, for someone to know how Henry’s betrayal turned his insides into acid and what he wished was anger into hurt.

Owen tutted, “Well…I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Me too.”

Curt’s eyes burned, unshed tears collecting in an embarrassing pool, blurring his vision. Owen looked away, coughing for a moment. He placed a warm hand on Curt’s shin, patting it in hopes of comforting him, Curt supposed. It was useless.

“He doesn’t deserve your tears, Curt. I promise you. He’s a spineless bastard,” Owen seethed. “Imagine doing that to your family, to your loved ones. It’s disgusting.”

Curt looked away from Owen to the solid pressure of the man’s hand upon his leg. Even through the layers of blankets that he wrapped himself in, he could feel the warmth of the other man’s skin. The hand retreated as Owen stood.

“Try and get some sleep,” Owen said as he turned. “Oh, and can you not tell anyone about the glasses? Technically you’re mean to have twenty-twenty to for MI6, so…”

Curt nodded, desperate for the man to leave.

“Thanks, love.”

Owen shut the door with a slight click.

Curt rolled over and turned off the light with a shaking hand.

The tears came hot and fast and shameful. The dark the only place for them.

He wasn’t a loved one.

* * *

The morning was cold. Its harsh breath woke him up first, then its burning fingers across his skin – he’d somehow managed to kick his blankets off in the night. He rolled out of bed and dragged himself to the lounge, quick-stepping across the cold floor.

In the lounge, Owen was sitting head in his hands, his watch – not the old one that was ruined in the water – but what Curt could only imagine was his communicator. The man sniffed, wiping his nose. He looked up; the whites of his eyes were riddled with red spiderwebs, the glasses were fogged around his nose.

“Shit,” Owen muttered and dragged the back of his hand across his eyes.

Curt couldn’t stop the question hurtling across the room, “Are you alright?”

Owen looked at him like he was an idiot, and Curt realised he was an idiot – the man was obviously not alright.

“No, I…Curt you need—” the man cut himself off with a harsh breath; his cheeks were dappled with red. “I’ll just make coffee.”

Owen stood, turning his back on Curt. He strode over to the tiny kitchen, limping still as he hissed. The speed, obviously causing him pain.

“Owen…come on, you can tell me,” Curt urged, following the man into the kitchen. “You saw me last night and this…” they were straying further into dangerous territory. They seemed to do it often, Curt wasn’t sure, but Owen seemed to get under his skin, wriggling under there and refusing to come out. He wasn’t even sure when the man managed to find his way behind Curt’s defences.

Owen hung his head with a sigh, putting the coffee pot over the flame. He stuck Curt with a look so stricken it took the breath out of his lungs and threw it against the wall.

“You’ll be forced…look, it’s not—” Owen leaned up against the counter, staring at his fingers he whispered, “Burgess has turned up in Russia.”

“Your mentor?”

Owen nodded as the temperature in the room impossibly dropped.

“He…he has information that I—” Curt could hear the other man’s teeth grinding, veins jumped in his forehead. “I didn’t realise…I never thought— I thought he’d go underground, you know? Become some sort of hermit, but he’s living it up in Moscow, and he…he knows things about me that could ruin me.”

Curt’s mind was running double time; every spy had skeletons not only in the closet but the crawl space and the attic too. What could be ruining Owen? His record was one of the cleanest he had ever seen.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Curt said. Owen’s head swivelled towards him, eyes wide with confusion; Curt back-peddled, “I mean, I don’t know whatever you’re talking about, but you can be sure I won’t…I won’t tell my boss if that’s what you’re worried about. If she doesn’t know there’s something there to dig for, she won’t bother, eh old boy?” Curt asked, slapping Owen’s back for good measure. He could do friendly; he was brilliant at friendly. Curt ‘Friendly and Straight’ Mega they’d call him.

“You’re…you don’t even want to know what it is?”

Curt snorted, “I think I can respect a secret. Besides, if you wanted to tell me, you would’ve, and now we have a pact, both been betrayed within twenty-four hours of each other, and we’ve only known each other for two and a bit days…nearly three?”

“Nearly three in…I think about two hours.”

“How romantic,” Curt said, the sarcasm broke the tension between them, and Owen snorted. Curt allowed a small seed of pride to plant itself in his chest; Carvour rarely smiled in his presence, so he tucked the look away for safekeeping in his memory.

He froze and turned to his partner, looking at him caught in the golden light of morning, as if in amber, he still looked like shit – objectively – but the smile caused his whole face to warm, the wrinkles around his eyes spoke of a time where the man grinned often. Curt wondered if he could increase their appearances upon Owen's face. The wicked upturn in one corner was all mischief folded into the corner of his mouth. The way the light caught in the lens of his glasses, bending to the concave of the glass, the fact that he was wearing them said much about Owen’s new outlook on the secrets that sat between them – bloated and overfed by Curt’s own shame – but to Owen, they seemed to be becoming less and less of an obstacle. 

Curt was fucked. _Jesus Christ, no!_

His chest twisted – painful and tight.

“Alright, dear?” Owen asked, pouring two cups of coffee.

“Yep,” Curt’s voice was strangled as he spoke. “Yes…completely fine. Just,” he coughed, “still waking up.”

Curt’s stomach was sinking as they walked over to the small, wobbly kitchen table. Owen had creamer under his arm, the little white container sticking out.

“Where did you get that?” Curt asked. The fridge had been nearly completely empty when they had arrived.

“I didn’t sleep very much, so I…went to the shops, and they didn’t have any American brands, obviously, so I just got…” Owen gestured lamely to the creamer he had put on the table.

“Well, thank you,” Curt said as he berated himself for the way his hands prickled at the idea of Owen thinking about him.

Curt prepared his coffee, following the small ritual that settled him into the day, leaving him feeling less off his axis than he had since they left America. He sipped at the coffee and sighed, letting the caffeine set his veins alight.

“Curt,” Owen said, and Curt hummed, looking up with hooded eyes. “W-we need to replan, I think, considering my injury.” Owen was tapping at the edge of his coffee cup, thumbing at the chips around the rim.

“Well, we’ve got how many days?”

“Four, to get to Berlin.”

“Right easy. We get a bus or maybe steal a car?”

“I think a car is the safer option. I know a man here in the city, not a contact but a tailor. We’ll need suits for the Gala. I think it would be safer to stay here for a few days. Let me heal and then drive to Berlin. What do you say?”

“You’re the man with the plan. I’m just the shmuck sent to babysit you.”

Owen laughed; looking down into the dark swirls of his coffee, he said, “I think we’ve gotten to the point we could call each other partners? Don’t you?” 

“Sure.”

The two smiled. Nearly dying together really does bring people closer together. 

* * *

Curt was lucky. He knew that; he played straight well, so well in fact that he sometimes wondered if he should’ve been an actor. The man in front of him was not so lucky, gaudy and bright and shrivelled; he was as visibly queer as a raisin of a man could get. He smoked a cigar that seemed too big for his tiny, bejewelled hands, but his suit was _impeccable._ Shoes shined so well that when Curt looked down, he saw himself staring up at him.

Curt was entirely bewitched as he stepped into the store, crowded with rows and rows of silk of all colours, patterns clashing and mixing with one another. A beautiful mess. But the place set his teeth on edge, eyes skating around the space, it was too _much._

Luckily, Carvour’s German was much better than his Polish, and the two men exchanged friendly greetings without Curt, shaking hands and laughing. While Curt was still gobsmacked, he didn’t even realise shops like this still existed in this grey little corner of the world.

“Das ist Walter,” Owen said expansively, gesturing towards Curt with a smile. The man gave him an appraising look up and down, eyes skating across his body with the critical eye of a professional.

“Ich bin Klaus,” the tailor said with a flourish of his hand.

Curt just wanted the smell of fabric softener to leave his nose and for this little man to be out of his life. He wondered if the tailor could see it on him too, in his eyes or maybe his hands? Did he stand gay? Curt adjusted his stance, trying not to put all his weight onto one leg as he normally would.

Owen sent a short whistle his way, inclining his head to the small dressing rooms nestled among the rows and rows of fabric. He ambled over, keeping his shoulders slouched slightly as Klaus followed him, shoving a suit into his hand, muttering about the colour of the suit and Curt’s eyes.

Curt just blocked it out and rushed into the changing room, making sure to avoid the frown that Owen threw his way.

The fittings passed in a blur of fabric and anxious sweat that gathered along his body. The small man’s hands left him so uncomfortable as he pinned the suit, murmuring to himself about measurements and other innocuous things. Curt found his gaze straying to Owen often, watching at the suit was pinned to his body with a swiftness that spoke of Klaus’s experience. The British agents seemed incredibly relaxed, an easy smile upon his face as he was put in a suit of forest green as it was, “A Christmas event Mega. Got to be festive.”

**OWEN LIST:**

**16\. Questionable sense of fashion**

Curt just hoped he didn’t end up in red and that he never saw Owen in the finished product as he already looked good enough. There was no need for the man to look so good that Curt would have to be dragged out of the Gala in a body bag.

As soon as it was over, he had bolted, a few notes left in Klaus’s hand as a deposit, crinkled and slightly damp but still good tender.

He heard the bell tinkle again, and Owen limped out.

“Well, you seemed comfortable in there,” Owen mused in German, squinting up at the cloudy sky. Curt was already walking back to their safehouse, letting the other man trail behind him.

“We shouldn’t be out for so long, is all.”

Owen tutted, smiling for a moment. “Nah, that’s not it at all. You’re lying.” Curt didn’t let himself trip up at the call out he just kept walking. But Owen continued, “Don’t tell me!”

“What?” Curt shot back.

“East Germany is a surprisingly progressive place, you know?”

Curt clenched his fists, watching the passing people escaping from the cold like them. “Where are you going with this?”

“Well, I know Americans have got McCarthy who…well—”

“Jesus Christ,” Curt breathed, “We cannot talk about this here.”

“Why?”

“Someone could be listening!” Curt hissed. Owen looked around at the nearly empty streets.

“Oh yeah. We’re surrounded by enemy spies,” he said with a sardonic twist of his mouth. 

Curt put a lid on his annoyance; it would do him no good to lose it at Owen on the streets, God the man was a pain. So, he just grumbled instead, quick-stepping away from Owen and out of range for talking as he navigated the streets back to the shit-show safehouse.

He gave the street a cursory glance before making his way up the stairs and opened the door with a twist of the ancient key and a protesting lock.

He took himself into the lounge, thankful for the four walls around him, and threw himself onto the couch. Ignoring the shutting of the front door and the footsteps that followed him.

“Just admit it!” Owen said with a smile.

Curt scowled, “Admit what?” he challenged.

“That you don’t like queers.”

Curt shot up from his seat, “W-what?” he sputtered out, “I n-never said that!”

“Well, it was quite clear with how you acted in there. Besides, it’s essentially your agency’s prerogative?”

“That’s not true! And you Brits are the same!”

“Ah!” Owen waved his hand, brushing off the comment, “Not like you, Americans.”

Curt weighed up his options here – the thought made him feel sick – he could protect himself. He knew many did, throwing insults and hiding behind them, only acting upon their desires hidden behind a haze of smoke and mirrors. Owen was giving him a clear shot towards passing; the man would likely never be suspicious of him in the future.

Curt sighed, “Look, I don’t hate queers. That would just be…I have my own mind right, Carvour. I don’t just think exactly what my government tells me to all the time. You got that?”

Owen seemed to have short-circuited a little; his body was still and unmoving, looming over him like some stupid bat that had spent far too much time in a belfry.

“Sit down, you idiot. You’re messing up the place,” Curt said as he gestured to the empty space next to him on the couch.

“You really?”

Curt shook his head, “No, man. What would be the point in hating someone like that, huh? Waste of time.”

Owen hummed noncommittally, nodding along as if in a haze he said, “I once had to infiltrate a British homosexual group, you know, in London, early days for me in the agency, so I was full of bluster and bluff trying to prove myself. They were tiny, just a few men. Communists, which you know…not a great look but I— I couldn’t really fault them.”

“Oh…”

Owen continued looking at his hands. “There was one man, his name was…John? Thatcher maybe? Carpenter? I can’t remember, but he really…was really nice to me. Just friendly nothing you know untoward or the such. But I—I ratted them out anyway cause I was a coward back then and only with MI5. I listened to everything my government said, my mentor said and now look where he is.” Owen pointed a finger towards the wall as if he could see Burgess in front of him. “He died in jail. They fucking beat him to death. Fucking John.”

Owen hung his head like a beaten dog, breathing shallow and Curt swallowed a thick lump in his throat.

“You didn’t know any better, Owen,” Curt comforted, not sure what to do with his hands or what to do with his face or his legs or his lungs, which seemed to have given up the ghost completely. Did he even believe what he was saying?

“I really should’ve,” Owen whispered, staring at his white knuckles.

“Owen, stop,” Curt said, finally giving up and laying a hand on the other man’s back, “You didn’t know better. We’ve all done things we regret and I— look, when I started out, I was working in internal affairs, terrible, terrible gig. I hated it, and mostly I spent my time following my _colleagues_ home and ratting on them. I was a snitch, which proved to A.S.S. that I was loyal, and for the longest time, I thought that made me fucking special. But it didn’t. I got out of that job as soon as I could, but I had to knock a lot of people off their perches to get here. All you can do is try and make up for your past mistakes, is what I mean. Okay?”

Owen gave him a shaky nod.

“Christ,” Curt whispered, withdrawing his hand, “It’s been quite a day of sharing, huh? Maybe I’m not the only shrink here, eh? Got me opening up like it’s nobody’s business. Come on, how about a drink, and we get out of each other’s heads? I think we deserve it.”

A grin spread across Owen’s face at that, and thoughts of sunshine and honey raced through Curt’s mind at the sight. _Jesus, he was becoming a sap._

“That sounds brilliant,” Owen replied, stifling a yawn with his hand.

It was time to drown the butterflies in his stomach in vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who skipped this chapter here is the summary:  
> \- Curt remembers more romantic aspects of his relationship with Henry while in the shower.  
> \- Owen needs the bathroom and Curt leaves.  
> \- Owen falls over and opens up his wound.  
> \- Curt helps him and the two go to bed - still tense!  
> \- Curt had a terrible nightmare about Owen and the other agent wakes him up.  
> \- They talk and Owen apologises for what he did to Curt. It's sweet (or at least I think so) 
> 
> \- The next day, Curt comes out to the lounge to find Owen who hasn't slept all night. The man reveals that his mentor has turned up in Moscow and has dirt on Owen that could ruin his career (I wonder what that could be...)  
> \- Curt comforts him and Owen reveals that he's been cleared by MI6 and that Curt could go home. Curt considers it but decides ultimately to stay. (wow they're just really good buddies, good pals)  
> \- ANYWAY, they plan a little and decide to stay in Frankfurt to let Owen heal before they go charging off to Berlin! They also need suits! Shopping montage commence!  
> \- (Oh also Curt realises that he has some kind of feelings for Owen after seeing him acknowledge Curt's feelings etc. it's cute)  
> \- They go to a store that Owen has been to before (woah could there be more backstory to his time in Frankfurt. Yes, yes there could.)  
> \- They tailor who owns the store is pretty flamboyantly gay (did you know East Germany de-criminalised homosexuality pretty early, huh!)  
> \- Anyway Curt is FREAKING. Classic gay panic and Owen notices.  
> \- They leave and talk at the safehouse, Owen assumes that Curt is a homophobe. Curt considers agreeing to cover his ass but then decides not to.  
> \- Owen reveals that early in his career, he worked an MI5 job (which is essentially MI6 but domestic) where he infiltrated an LGBTQIA+ group and ratted them out. At least one of the men died as a result.  
> \- He feels horribly guilty and Curt is moved to share a part of his past where he worked in internal affairs, snooping on his co-workers.  
> \- At this point, they're both pretty vulnerable, and as emotionally stunted children they decide to have a drink.
> 
> CUE CREDITS. (I hope that was useful for any of you that didn't read the chapter!) 
> 
> Thank you for reading! And please leave a comment if you so desire! I love a yarn!

**Author's Note:**

> What do you guys think of this meeting? I would love a bit of feedback! 
> 
> "Comments make the dream work" -- common writer proverb.


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